Founding Hogwarts
by Rufus T. Firefly
Summary: AU. The Founders of Hogwarts were brave, witty, loyal and cunning. They were also drunk, besotted, sarcastic, proud, lustful, jealous, conceited, baffled, cursed – and on speaking terms with an inebriated Glaswegian hat. Read the bits history missed out.
1. Chapter 1: The Virtuoso Duo

**A/N:** This fic first appeared online in 2002, and should most definitely be considered AU. The anachronisms are intentionally used for humour. All reviews are welcomed with open arms.

**Chapter One: The Virtuoso Duo**

'Go _away_, Slytherin.'

'What – and deprive myself of your enthralling presence?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'I don't think I could face the sacrifice.'

Anyone who knows anything about _anything _knows that the oldest and noblest school of magic in the world is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: steeped in tradition, preceded by reputation and successfully evading taxes since 1671.

'If you can't stand the pain of being without me, there's a nice lake outside with your name on it.'

Everyone knows that it was founded over a thousand years ago by the greatest wizards of their age, each of whom brought a vital individual characteristic to the school: Hufflepuff, loyal and true; Slytherin, cunning and determined; Ravenclaw, wise and shrewd; Gryffindor, fearless and strong.

'Now Ravenclaw, is that really the _best_ you can come up with?'

Everyone knows Hogwarts was the first school of magic to be created anywhere in the world.

'Yes. Now piss off, you snakey bastard.'

Everyone was – quite naturally – _wrong_.

0000000000

The Sarah Summers School of Sorcery was still in its early days and already past its prime. Externally, the building was a grey, shambling mess; it sprawled across the landscape untidily, as if it had been rolled down the valley and shattered when it hit the bottom. No attempt had been made to impose any semblance of order or rationale upon the place, because nobody cared enough to do so.

But inside the walls, things were different. Teaching and studying the classes were the foundations of all future magical practise; within those walls were some of the clearest, most disciplined minds in the history of the wizarding world.

And then there was Salazar.

'Correct me if I'm wrong, Ravenclaw, but haven't you already called me a "snakey bastard" four times today?'

And _then_ there was Rowena, who knew very well how many times she'd insinuated Salazar Slytherin was both snakey and a bastard, and it was a considerably more than four times. But she didn't admit that, for the two primary aforementioned reasons that he was both a) snakey and b) a complete and utter bastard.

Instead she said, 'And yet you remain, to plague me for my life eternal. Why _is _that?'

'I put it down to unresolved sexual tension.'

'Eugh,' said Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena's long-time best friend. 'I'm trying to eat, here.'

Salazar's mouth opened to frame an insult, but Rowena quickly intervened: 'What is it you _want_, Slytherin? Because as amusing as it is, staring up your enormous nose, it's really starting to cast a shadow.'

At this, he briefly wavered. Though the half-grin, half-sneer remained on his face as always, a nerve had clearly been touched: his nose was noticibly long, thin and pointed, and he didn't appreciate additional attention being drawn to it.

He said, 'I congratulate you, Ravenclaw, on finally coming up with a fresh insult. Are you going to use this one for the rest of the term?'

'Oh, shut up. What do you want?'

"Oh, shut up" was really the extent of her verbal prowess. His ruffled feathers settled slightly, at that. He slouched against the wall and answered, 'Believe me, Ravenclaw, I wouldn't be loitering in such close proximity if I had another choice. Actually, I need to talk to you about potions homework.'

Rowena found herself swamped by that painfully familiar feeling that she'd missed something important. She ventured, 'Potions…homework…?'

'Yes. Potions homework set to us by the _delightful _Professor Harper, I believe you know the one? Lank hair, wide mouth, slight squint and a hobble?'

'Er, yes, but I don't see what that has to do with—'

'Three metres of parchment about the healing properties of firestone when ground up and added to—'

'I know what you mean, testicle-head, I'm just wondering—'

'The essay we have to write in _pairs_, genius. You and I, the Virtuoso Duo.'

Ah yes: first the painfully familiar feeling of having missed something important, shortly followed by the inevitable icy stab of dread. 'The Virtuoso what-now?'

He sighed in that familiar, patronising way of his and crouched opposite Rowena's chair, so he was at her level. '_Duo_, Ravenclaw. Although I'd rather not sacrifice my perfect grade by working with you for an entire evening – and believe me, whenever we engage in discussion I can actually feel my brain cells collapsing – I'm afraid it's necessary I undertake the challenge.'

'But – _why?_' Rowena asked, with all the torment of a woman being lead to the gallows. 'Why you? I hate you. Why can't I work with Helga?'

'Too bad. He's paired us in alphabetical order – _think_, woman…R is for Ravenclaw, S is for…?'

'Er…snakey? Slimy? Stupid, snarky, simple, shifty—'

'Sexy.'

'—sulky, stinky, sour, snide, self-righteous, _Slytherin_.' She paused. 'Did I miss one?'

'Sterile,' Helga offered, eyeing him suspiciously.

'And sterile.'

'My point is,' Salazar continued, green eyes staring levelly into hers, 'that the essay has to be handed in next Thursday, which gives us very little time to do it. And considering I find your mere existence to by some kind of divine insult, I suggest we ought to put off doing it for as long as possible.' He stood up, and added, 'Not to mention the fact that in the last three minutes alone you've accused me of being sexually impotent and some kind of aesthetic genital-head. How does Wednesday evening suit you?'

'Five o'clock,' she sighed. 'Library. With a hammer.'

'I'd expect nothing less.'

0000000000000

Rowena didn't know what it was, one thousand years later, everyone else would know. She was uncertain of her life in the future, how she would get there and what would happen along the way. If anyone had mentioned the name "Hogwarts" to her, she would probably have reported them for use of aggressive language.

Seventeen years old and typically self-possessed for a girl her age, she had managed to accept, with a resigned sigh, that she would rise no further than the ranks of wife and mother.

That is…

_Most_ of her had accepted the idea. The outer shell nodded and mumbled "oh well, it's a life at least", but deep inside, hidden amongst her secret inhibitions, admirations and dreams that only she and Helga knew of, was the tiny, burning hope…

It was perfectly possible, of course it was. All she needed was a wide knowledge of various subjects, a broad, conflicting personality and a large resource of money at her disposal.

None of which she actually had.

_And yet—_

How hard could it be, really? Sharing knowledge, that was all it was…

She wasn't sure how or when the idea had occurred to her; possibly sometime during her second year at school when, upon receiving her third detention that week from Professor Harper over a certain stick of chalk that had somehow found its way up a certain nostril, she'd muttered:

'Even I could run a school better than this one…'

She might not have pursued the thought anywhere, if not for her Helga overhearing the comment.

'What was that?' she'd asked, with vague interest.

Rowena shrugged and explained, 'I just said I could probably run a school better than this old…' (here there had been a string of very imaginative curse words) '…of a place.'

'Really?' Helga asked, wide-eyed. 'Do you think you could?'

Rowena shrugged again. 'Well – not just me, I mean. You'd obviously help. We'd co-run it!' She grinned brightly at this stroke of genius. 'I mean, if you wanted to.'

'Of course I would! It'd be hard work, though.'

'No it wouldn't. It'd be fun. We'd teach Defence, and Potions—'

'Eugh.'

'—but it'd be fun,' she insisted, 'because _we'd_ be teaching it. And we'd do…Astronomy, and Arithmetic and Divination and things like…er…'

'Cookery?' Helga offered. 'Normal skills people would have to use.'

'Yes, Cookery. Sword fighting, too, for boys _and _girls, and…and all the other things we learn here. It'll be just like this School, but marginally better.'

The idea successfully captured both their imaginations, and the two of them had spent many lunch breaks that year playing— and Rowena cringed slightly at the memory— teaching games ("_No_, damn you! Only three drops of poison in the beaker, you horrible little woman!"). What Helga hadn't realised, until Rowena explained some years later, was that Rowena was completely serious about these plans.

'Ah,' said Helga, in what she hoped was a soothing tone, 'the problem is...well, we're girls, Ro.'

Rowena glanced downwards, to confirm the fact. 'It would seem so, yes. And?'

'I know you believe in equal rights and opportunities for all, and everything, but…er…'

'_Yes?_'

'I don't think anyone else does. Oh, _I_ do,' she added quickly, catching the look on her friend's face, 'but there aren't many people willing to send their children to a school run by us second-class women, are there?'

'What about Lady Summers? She's a woman, and look how many kids have been sent here!'

'Mm-mm…but…look how many kids _haven't_, Ro. If we were to ever start a school, the amount of people under seventeen who aren't at this school and aren't being taught from home and aren't living with parents who wouldn't consider sending them to a school run by females…well…there aren't many, is my point.'

'OK, but what if - what _if _we got a man, hm? We could pretend he was headmaster! He could be our beard! Literally!'

'It could work,' Helga conceded, wincing, 'but then there's the ever-pertinent issue of _money_. I mean - well, when you think about it, Ro, there's so much stuff that needs to be paid for: there's the building itself and the books and the equipment and the food and…and…' After food and books, her imagination ran dry. 'Well, lots of other things, I'll bet. We don't _have _that much money.'

'But we're _Ladies_. That's official. My father was Lord Ravenclaw and my mother was Lady Ravenclaw and I'm Lady Ravenclaw the Second and—'

'—And their money went to your brother and he squandered it all on wine and women with nice bottoms,' Helga finished, gently. 'It's just a title, Ro. Just like mine.'

'But,' said Rowena, improvising desperately, 'but, if we collaborated with a man who happened to be intelligent, ambitious _and _spectacularly rich, then…'

'Er, yeah, Ro.' She tapped her sportingly on the thigh. 'Let's do that.'

0000000000000000

Back in the here and now, Rowena finished changing into her nightclothes and sat on the edge of her bed. She gave her hair a final brush and glanced at the abandoned charms homework by her feet. If she was going to earn marks for enchanting her name so it flashed red every ten seconds, she'd be perfectly fine. Alas; it was doubtful.

Rowena was rather fond of her hair, up to the point of vanity. It was long and light brown and did this impressive swishy, wavy thing that never failed to stir emotion.

What else did she have? Eyes. Two of them. Round and blue and rather nice, although frequently compared to the "naive and ridiculous peepers of a recently-enslaved house-elf" (Salazar's words). But they were OK. Like the freckles. And, at a stretch, the ears, although Mr Slytherin had been known to continue the elf simile here.

She wore all the curves of the day, and a couple extra for good measure. Nothing she was losing sleep about, but nothing she'd mourn the absence of, should they ever decide to quietly abscond.

A voice from outside the dormitory door asked, 'Are you decent?'

'Yes,' said Rowena, jumping slightly at the sudden interruption. 'Come in.'

The girl who entered the room did _not _curve; nor did she earn any elvish comparisons. She was Elvina Hart, and the perfection was obscene: her clear, blue eyes, blonde hair and ghostly white skin - not to mention the cushy inheritance - meant she was both the most lusted-after girl in the school, and the one Rowena most wanted to smother with a dead cat.

Rowena reviewed her most recent thoughts. Smother with a cat? Was she really _that _bitter?

'Ah, Bronwyn, it's you,' Elvina said, breezily. 'I was wondering what you were up to.'

'It's Rowena, actually.'

'What?'

'It's – it's Rowena.' What was the point? She never remembered. 'Rowena, not Bronwyn.'

'Well that's nice, but _listen _– I'm off to meet Crispin Lightfoot in ten minutes behind the old gamekeepers hut, but if Michael Birdman should ask, tell him I'm in the library but he _can't meet me there _because I'm studying very hard and the sight of his rugged and lovely appearance would distract me, have you got that?'

'I've got it.'

'But if it's _Welland _that asks for me,' she continued, dragging Rowena deeper and deeper into the torrid mush that was Elvina Hart's Sex Life, 'tell him I'm not speaking to him after what he tried to do last Thursday.'

'Which Welland?'

'Oh…' She sat down, wincing with the effort of articulation. 'The tall one, you know. Blonde hair.'

'But I thought you were with the other—?'

'No, no, no, Bronwyn! He simply _proposed._'

'Oh,' said Rowena, through a yawn, 'that's alright then.'

'So,' said Elvina, concentrating very intently, 'if _he_ should call for me, tell him I'm...er...'

Rowena shrugged, too tired to care. 'Dead?'

'Yes! Dead – tragically dead. A martyr to my own cause. Scorched by the flames of passion; extinguished by the suds of death. Got that?'

She shrugged again. 'Suppose so.'

'Excellent.' She stood up, hair swishing in a particularly fetching manner, and said, 'Well, if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with a pair of trousers…ha, if you get me.'

Rowena thought, Of course I get you. Everybody gets you. And every male human being in the castle has got you at some point or other, and in a slightly more direct manner. Hell, even that_ kneazle _got you, once, though we're under strict instruction never to talk about it.

But aloud she said, 'I think I understand, yes. See you later.'

'I hope you won't!'

Poor Elvina. It must be a very underpaid job, being her brain. And Helga—

Ah, Helga, dear Helga, with her curly hair that lived on the yellow side of blonde. She wasn't unattractive, with her brown eyes, plump figure, her endearing little smile and enviably ample bosom...but it was all secondary to the buzz of anxious, nervous energy she radiated at all times. Her academic intelligence was neither here nor there, but the girl could make turnip pie taste like heaven.

Rowena yawned and checked the time. A quarter past ten. She glanced down at the charms homework by her feet. Her named flashed, mockingly.

She gathered up her notes and wand and headed into the common room, first checking it wasn't occupied. While her nightdress could hardly be described as saucy and revealing (resembling, as it did, a white body bag), there were other clothes she'd rather have been caught in, if given the choice.

She set down her equipment and took a seat by the fire, shooting it a hopeful look. Sometimes, Helga's face could be seen in the flames, ready for a long, meaningless conversation and homework advice-giving. Unfortunately, it seemed now wasn't the time.

The four houses of Sarah Summers School of Sorcery were divided into Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. While both Rowena and, much to her dismay, _Salazar _had been selected for Winter house, Helga was destined for Spring, following the footsteps of the many Hufflepuffs before her.

It was a real shame, because Helga was quite good at charms. If only there was time to send an owl, and—

'Either you're thinking very intensely,' said a slick voice in the darkness, 'or you've slipped into a coma.'

'Wuh?' she cried, articulately, as her pulse returned to something marginally more healthy. 'Who – what - _Slytherin?_'

'Thought so. Coma it is.'

_'Slytherin?_' Rowena repeated, snapping to her senses and checking her nightclothes. 'Where the hell are you, and why?'

Now that she concentrated, coloured red by the dying embers of the fire, a figure was just visible opposite her: legs stretched comfortably and the usual smug grin on his lips, his clothes dishevelled and hair untied.

He said, 'Well, I thought I was in the common room, but now you're here I realise I must have slipped into the bowels of hell during an idle moment. Are you here to row me across the Styx, or do you just hand out leaflets?'

'Headache,' Rowena growled. 'Headache. In _that _arm chair. Headache—'

'Oh, I see. You're just here to provide the music. Play on, piper!'

'Why are you _here?_' she moaned. 'Why _now?_'

Salazar quirked an eyebrow. 'Well, considering my bag went missing on Monday – only to turn up mysteriously three days later in the girls' bathroom with a note reading "hahaha tit-face" on it – I'm writing my overdue Transfiguration essay.'

Rowena tried to look innocent.

'Since you ask.'

She grinned at the possibilities. 'Did you have to go in and get it yourself?'

'Happily enough, _darling _Elvina retrieved it for me in exchange for a date yesterday evening.'

'Eugh.'

'No need to get jealous, Ravenclaw. Fortunately, her Enormous Black Book is so brimming with information—'

'—And her enormous blonde head definitely _isn't_—'

'—that I was later able to convince her it was all just a magnificent dream.'

'Shame,' Rowena mumbled, 'a wanton little tart like that could save you a fortune in prostitutes.'

Salazar grinned. '_Not_ jealous, are we?'

'Not at all, thank you,' she snapped. 'If given the choice between so much as approaching your trousers or smothering you with a dead cat, I'm going with cats all the way.' _Damn_, she added mentally, _I really must stop re-cycling the ones that don't make sense._

Even the High Lord of Sarcasm was stalled by that one. 'A cat?'

'Yes.'

Slytherin's brow crumpled. 'What – a "meow" kind of cat?'

'Yes.' Well, she had to run with it now. 'One of those.'

'_Why?_'

'Why would I kill you, or why would I use a cat?'

'Now you mention it, I'm rather curious about both.'

'Oh. Well...can you imagine waking up with a cat in your mouth?'

Slytherin frowned. 'I hope that's an answer to the cat question, or…' his frown deepened, '…that's really, really weird.'

'Shut up.'

'And why, exactly, would you ever want to suffocate me with a domesticated animal in the first place?'

She shrugged. 'Because you're a snakey bastard?'

She couldn't see him in the darkness, but she'd bet money on his eyebrow being raised. It always was. For Salazar Slytherin, every emotion in the human spectrum could be displayed in one of two ways: sarcasm, or a cocked eyebrow. Curiosity, disbelief, fascination, resentment, fear – it was all present in that one right eyebrow.

After a few seconds of Eyebrow, he asked the inevitable: 'But _why?_

'Look,' she snapped, 'I don't know _why_ exactly, I just hate your guts and you hate mine. Let's leave it at that, shall we?'

'Whoever said I hated your guts?'

'_You _did! Many times over the past seven years, between various attempts to sabotage my wellbeing! Remember?' She adopted a squeaky voice and quoted, '"Ravenclaw, I'd like to hit you with my text book", "Ravenclaw, I just _did _hit you with my text book", "Ravenclaw, I'm so very tempted to throw this stuffed weasel at your head", "Ravenclaw, I am more snide and sanctimonious than thou, fear my wrath and this bottle of voice-altering pixie dust…"'

She couldn't be sure, in the darkness, but he looked to have raised yet another quizzical eyebrow. 'I don't talk like that.'

'You did when I got you back with the pixie dust.'

'Hm. Oh yes. You know, your voice sounded very interesting in bass.'

Rowena rolled her eyes. 'Oh yes, very interesting. Especially when I woke up to yawn and made all the floorboards shake.'

'At least you didn't sneeze and smash a window, or get confused with Blinky the house-elf by her lust-driven elf friend.'

The strange mental picture this conjured made her laugh so suddenly and loudly the pitch of her voice was quite reminiscent of Slytherin's, post-pixie dust incident.

From the direction of the boys' dormitory, a deep voice said, **'Shush!'**

Slytherin merely continued to watch her, apparently very amused by this sudden outburst, while Rowena managed to contain herself.

'It wasn't that funny,' he said.

'Not for you, maybe, but you're not the one getting hilariously inappropriate mental images.'

Slytherin smirked. 'If that's what it takes to float your kayak…'

'Eugh! Please. Really, though…house-elves…they're about as tall as your knee!'

'Not in second year they weren't.' He sniffed with attempted disdain. 'And anyway, I'm sure the house-elf didn't notice anything was awry until I bashed it over the head with a stick.'

'How could it have _not _noticed?'

'Well I don't know, Ravenclaw. It was probably blinded with a wild and passionate animalistic lust for yours truly.'

Rowena actually snorted at this. 'Do you realise,' she asked, ignoring the chuckle this solicited, 'you're providing me with a lifetime of ammunition against you?'

'Do _you _realise I can see through your nightdress?'

'_What?!_'

He smirked. 'Only joking.'

Rowena lowered her defensive hands. 'You utter git!'

'**Shush!**' said the deep voice from the boys' dormitory.

'Yeah, shut up!' said a female voice, from the boys' dormitory.

Rowena's brow knotted as she realised something highly unusual was occurring in the boys' dormitory.

'Hang on…' she mumbled.

Slytherin nodded. '…And thus,' he said, gesturing around the common room, 'fate brings me here to mock you, rather than acting referee for an embarrassing attempt at foreplay. I just don't go in for that kind of thing.'

'Oh,' she said. Then, not for the first time that day, she added, 'Eugh.'

Salazar's sneer suddenly melted into an honestly amused smile. It was incredibly unnerving.

'What's so funny?' Rowena demanded.

'Just thinking of Gryffindor, actually…'

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. 'Talking of kayaks, Slytherin—'

'Oh, don't be vile.'

'What is it, then? And keep it clean.'

'I was thinking of the expression on his face when he found out what Welland Marshstone uses the dormitory for on a Friday evening.' He smiled at the recollection. 'Usually Welland just manoeuvres him out of the way for a couple of hours so he has no idea, but last week he came back early looking for his wand and…well, you can imagine how he reacts when confronted with anything more sexual than a fishing rod.'

'Oh…' She attempted to bite back a grin. 'Poor Godric.'

Godric Gryffindor was...a peculiar specimen, to say the least. He was almost crippling polite, for one thing: he spent all his waking hours protecting ladies and being polite to strangers and rescuing princesses from dragons, lord only knew where he found the time to do anything else.

Although neither openly stated the fact, he and Slytherin were cousins. You wouldn't have guessed from looking: where Slytherin was lean and pale, Godric was muscular and tanned. Slytherin's hair was black and sleek, secured in a ponytail in an attempt at neatness that otherwise failed him. With green, sharp eyes and a semi-permanent sneer, he was almost the polar opposite of his cousin:

Gryffindor was humble and modest; taller than Slytherin, with auburn hair that curled violently past his ears. He had a large, square jaw, a straight nose and broad shoulders. Rowena never noticed much of his eyes; she suspected no one else did either (except Helga, who could tell you they were a shade of dark brown that matched the bark of the school's oak tree _almost exactly_, but with a kind of burnt amber glow around the pupil and these pale gold flakes that catch the sun on a bright day etc); after all, there was so much else about Godric to be noticed.

There were many young ladies within the castle who swooned after Godric on a daily basis, and several elderly ones as well. Helga was one of this vast majority; she silently adored him to the point of fascination, and had been known to stare vacantly after him for minutes at a time, sighing in his wake in a manner that was incredibly disconcerting.

Apparently thinking the same thing, Slytherin said, 'Your chum Helga fancies him, doesn't she?'

'How can you tell?' Rowena asked, unable to stop herself.

'Ha. It's pretty embarrassing to watch, actually, the way she twitches every time he talks to her—'

'Shut up, Slytherin!'

'You just said it yourself, Ravenclaw, so don't get so defensive.'

'I didn't say anything. Just—'

'—Implied it.'

'Shut up. Bugger off. Chop some trees down, just do _something_. Get lost,' she added, for good measure.

A voice in her ear made her jump. He said, 'Alright, I'll do so.' She couldn't see him, but she _knew_ he was smirking. Goddamn, how did he get out of his seat and stand behind her without her noticing? It may have been dark, but… that boy definitely had vampire blood in his veins somewhere.

Nothing else springing to mind, she mumbled, 'Well…good.'

'Night, Ravenclaw.'

With that he skulked away, shutting the common room door after him.

'And…and get a wash!' she shouted.

She sighed. _Not exactly the peak of your verbal prowess, Rowena._

Her name flashed red in the darkness. She sighed again.

_Dammit all._


	2. Chapter 2: Much Frolicking and Frivolity

**Chapter Two: Much Frolicking and Frivolity**

Rowena was embarrassed.

This, much to her dismay, was not a rare occurrence.

However, there was only a very select amount of people in the world who could honestly claim to have woken up and stepped into a bowl of someone else's cold porridge, and Rowena was now, grudgingly, a member of this elite force.

Her embarrassment faded upon realising the only witness to this incident was the vacant-as-ever Elvina Hart, who sniffed in a dramatic manner and declared:

'I'm in a self-destructive vessel upon the harsh and choppy seas of distraught frenzy.'

Rowena stared at her for a while. She looked down at the porridge, and then back at Elvina. The voice in her head said, What the hell kind of morning is this?

Elvina said, 'I'm just a stain of black despair in the vast, ethereal whiteness.'

'I'm stood in your porridge.'

'I'm just a meaningless jumble of shattered emotions and the dying embers of a once-bright passion.'

'I'm – I'm actually _in_…your porridge.'

'My broken future is a shard of jagged glass, splintering under foot and cutting deep into—'

'I'm in your porridge!' Rowena repeated, with an edge of hysteria in her voice. 'I'm in your goddamn porridge! Why? Why am I in your porridge, Elvina? My _foot _is in _oatmeal!_'

Elvina gave a short, angry sigh; evidently, the poetry of the moment was lost on her dorm mate. 'Bronwyn, my life is in tatters around me right now. Could you _please _show some manners?'

Rowena's mouth twitched a few times to frame words like "foot", "breakfast", "porridge" and "why", but they found no release. Instead she focussed her attention on removing the aforementioned limb from the aforementioned foodstuff, and felt slightly better about things.

Then, confident it was a bad idea but a slave to curiosity nonetheless, she said, 'What's wrong with you?' and mentally added, _Other than the obvious stuff._

Elvina sniffled, and tucked her (unseen but probably perfect) knees under her (perfect) chin. 'How did it all go so wrong, Bronwyn? How did it come to this?'

'Er…I don't know,' she replied, honestly.

'Why does fate treat me as it does, hm? Why am I such a slave to passion?'

Oh dear, thought Rowena, we've somehow got on to _passion_. Yes, she knew very well what passion was. It was the thing that woke her up at two o'clock in the morning and asked her to leave the dorm for half an hour or so, or until the noises had died down. When you shared a room was Elvina Hart, "passion" was always something to be feared.

'Slave to passion,' Rowena repeated, desperate for a hasty escape from the conversation. 'Er, I don't know, Elvina. Did that kneazle try it on again?'

'What?' Evidently, Rowena's lack of poetry was really affecting her sorrow. 'No, don't be silly. This is serious.'

'Right. Could you pass me a towel, or something?'

'Serious,' she continued, improvising desperately, 'as the – the swell of the midnight sea in the, er…ocean of my…_soul_.'

Realising that Elvina was probably not about to respond with a towel, Rowena discreetly wiped herself clean on one of her nightdresses. 'Please,' she said, with feigned enthusiasm, 'I can see you're upset; you simply must share with me your painful pain.' Painful pain? It's come to this_._ 'You're clearly a hapless soul aboard a despairing vessel, tossed across the withering sea of, of—'

'Desperation!' Elvina cried.

'—desperation, headed towards the jagged rocks of, er—'

'Sorrow that cannot be described by a mortal tongue!'

'—armed with only the vomit bag of eternal torment – no?'

'No, Bronwyn' said Elvina, severely, 'vomit doesn't figure into it, this time. No – for my lust-fuelled affair with Crispin Lightfoot, although doomed from the start, came to an abrupt and unforeseen ending last night. Like a butterfly, its beauty crushed prematurely in the hands of unforeseen and tragic circumstances, all hope begins to fade as my heart pounds with the intensity of —'

While Elvina continued to describe the strength of her heart's pound, the boat of lust amidst the sea of true love and many other strange metaphors to do with the sea, Rowena wondered if she'd been talking to Henrietta Bagman, the plump girl who wrote a certain type of romance novel with descriptions very similar to the ones Elvina was repeating. Rowena's theory was confirmed when Elvina finished:

'…and, er, the word Bagman said and I couldn't pronounce, but it sounded a lot like—'

'Yes, of course,' Rowena interjected quickly, sure that if Henrietta Bagman had said it and Elvina Hart couldn't pronounce it, it wasn't something she'd want to hear at this time in the morning.

Elvina sniffed. 'I believe someone may have told him my whereabouts last night, when I met with Michael Birdman for a bit of, er, late-night weeding behind the old gamekeepers hut…' Her eyebrows twitched suggestively. 'If you get me.'

'I get you,' said Rowena, flatly. Elvina, like syphilis, remained very easy to get. And Elvina, like syphilis, made your mind wander and your ears drop off.

At that moment, the sad excuse of a morning was interrupted by the arrival of Rowena's snowy owl, Samuel. It fluttered into the room, knocking things from the dressing table and causing a small whirlwind of paper as he steadied himself and landed at the foot of Rowena's bed. Upon arriving, both the owl and Elvina gave Rowena a look of intense dislike.

'Bronwyn, do you think this is really the time? That nasty bird is getting in the way of my sorrow.'

'Sorry, Elvina. Naughty Samuel,' she added. Samuel gave her a very evil look. She extended a hand to retrieve the rolled-up parchment attached to his talon, but he nipped her thumb in a way that was definitely not playful and was certainly meant to hurt.

'Argh! Heartless bastard, give me the letter—'

Following a great deal effort, which included a lot of beak evasion and a few dramatic sobs, Rowena successfully managed to retrieve the letter. Reading it was rather difficult when she could feel Samuel's steely gaze on her thumb.

The letter said:

_Dear Ro,_

_It's nine o'clock, where are you? In case you've forgotten, I'm in the dining hall, as is usual for a Saturday morning. Hurry up woman. The loins and groins of Professor Harper desire gyration._

_Yours,_

_Helga (Hufflepuff)_

_PS- Samuel is a lovely animal, oh Hater of All Winged Beasts. I would gladly swap him for Finkles; the stupid old owl is old and senile and keeps trying to have sex with me._

Rowena met the beady black eyes of Samuel and scowled, 'Oh, you'll be good for Helga, will you?'

Samuel made an attempt to snap at her hair in response.

Turning the letter over, Rowena scribbled:

_Helly,_

_So sorry I'm late (again), was kept up late last night due to circumstances out of my control. Really. Shall explain after I've got changed and had a bath; I seem to have stood in Elvina Hart's porridge. Pity me._

_Yours,_

_Ro_

_PS- Am slightly concerned that you're not more bothered by Finkles' love-making attempts. Will try to hook you up with Samuel if you fancy it._

She sent Samuel on his way with a scornful look. Mary Croswell, the dormitory's only other occupant, had apparently long-since made the wise decision to run away, leaving Elvina without an audience.

'Elvina, I'm going to get a bath and meet Helga. Will you be alright?'

Elvina sniffed despairingly, yet again. 'I very much doubt it.'

'Oh dear. Here's your nightdress, I think someone's spilt porridge on it. Bye-bye.'

'_Fornicate! _That was it.'

Rowena froze and turned around before she reached the door. 'What?'

'The word I couldn't pronounce! Fornicate.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, 'er, well done. Do you know what it means?'

Elvina rolled her eyes. 'Really, Bronwyn. I'm not a _brain_.'

* * *

Rowena skidded to a halt outside the dining hall at seven minutes to ten, slightly out of breath and regretting the long run from Winter house. It was a hot morning in June and, after her third collision with an innocent and sweaty bystander, she was beginning to wonder if she should have stayed in bed. After chasing Elvina from the dormitory with a harpoon, of course.

She made her way over to Helga, sat in their usual place under the small window, and fell down heavily into the seat beside her.

Gaze still cemented to her book, which she'd been reading for over a week, Helga greeted her friend with:

'Five to ten.'

'_Seven_ to ten.'

'Six.'

'Same difference.'

'Your time-keeping is horrendous.'

'I know. Did they stop serving breakfast?'

Helga finally looked up and put her book away, smiling. 'I saved you some. Nothing hot, though, because I didn't know what time you'd be down.'

'Eugh, is it fruit?'

'Sorry.'

'Hm. Oh well, I'll have it.' She accepted the various selections of fruit Helga had stashed away for her and made a start on the apple, relieved to have some kind of breakfast that wasn't oat-based.

Other than a few third years studying in a corner the dining hall was empty, so there was no reason for Helga to conspiratorially lower her tone as she did to ask: 'What were the "circumstances out of your control" that kept you up late last night?'

'_All_ Slytherin's fault, naturally.'

'Slytherin? What did he do? Was it the pixie dust? Can we kill him?'

'Er…Yes, not much, no and naturally, yes.'

'Excellent.'

She sighed at the memory, which is difficult to do with a moutful of apple, and explained, 'I just went into the common room to finish my charms homework, and the Prince of Smug happened to be there, too. All terribly exciting, as you can imagine...'

Between mouthfuls of breakfast Rowena ran through the details of their conversation – conveniently ignoring all mention of Godric and Helga – finishing:

'…the slimy kid he is. Honestly, I'm beginning to understand why his family crest has a great big snake on it, the dirty creep.'

'Not talking about _me_ again, are you?' said Slytherin, appearing silently between them and causing both girls to jump.

To his credit, he waited until Rowena had finished choking on her apple before laughing at her.

'_Yes_, actually,' she managed, wiping away the stray spittle. 'You, and only you.'

'Of course,' he said, 'though I'm not the one who stayed up all night talking to me in a dimly-lit room, mon amor.'

Helga gurned at the implication. Rowena said, 'Oh, shut up. What do you want?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Just to tell you I won't be able to meet you at five o'clock on Wednesday.'

'Why not?'

'Prior engagements.'

'Ritual virgin sacrifice?'

'That's the one.'

'What time then?'

'Six,' he said, with another nonchalant shrug.

Rowena said, 'Quarter-past six. I wear the trousers in this temporary partnership, Slytherin.'

'No…you're wearing a dress, and I'm not swapping clothes with you. Didn't Hufflepuff's uncle Ulrich start doing that with random wenches on the battlefield?'

'Great Uncle,' Helga mumbled defensively.

'Mad as a hatter,' Slytherin grinned.

Rowena attempted to swat him away with her hand, mumbling, 'Ok, whatever, get lost.'

Clearly taking pleasure in irritating her, Salazar continued to ramble: 'Lovely day, isn't it? Shouldn't you be outside? The birds are singing, the trees are swaying, the statues are dancing, love is in the air…well, not for you two. I know house elves who get more action than you two.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, 'but there's no need to bring your personal life into this.'

Helga giggled and Slytherin stalked away, leaving Rowena feeling rather pleased with herself.

'Let's go outside, Ro,' said Helga, following Slytherin's retreating form with a steely glare, 'it's boiling in here.'

* * *

It wasn't much less boiling outside, where Rowena and Helga sat in their habitual spot on the edge of the woods beneath a cluster of trees. Her back resting against the trunk of a silver birch, Rowena tore the grass in front of her from the root, short of anything else to do, and moved it into a little pile of dead grass and weeds.

The sky was light and cloudless, the yolk-like sun waving in the heat like an illusion. A short distance away, far from the comforting shade of the trees, some of the younger students ran around, squealing. Some of the older students threw sticks at them.

Looking up from the ground and instead at the students, Rowena wondered aloud:

'What is it they say about children playing?'

'Er,' said Helga, '"one for sorrow, two for joy…"?'

'No…I think that's magpies.'

'Really?'

'Pretty sure.'

'Oh, children playing – "there's no sweeter sound"?'

'That's it. "There's no sweeter sound than children at play". Who the hell said that?'

Helga shrugged. 'I don't know, but it's pretty cute—'

She was interrupted by the cry of a first year as he ran past:

'…._baaaaaaastaaaaaaaard!_'

'—if you don't listen to what they're actually saying,' Helga finished, looking rather distressed and picking up her book again.

Rowena chuckled slightly and moved to a new patch of grass to tear. 'Lo and behold,' she declared, 'that is the sound of happiness.'

'Hm. Not really a scene of harmless frolicking and frivolity, is it?'

'At least they've stopped setting each other on fire.'

For a minute or two they shared a companionable silence; Helga hunched over her book and Rowena stretched out, resting against a tree. The only noise came from the irregular rustling of leaves as a much-appreciated breeze swept through the woods; the sound of a thin page being delicately turned by Helga; and the cry of obscenities from the angelic first years.

Rowena shattered the silence, slowly and thoughtfully saying, 'Helga…'

Helga looked up. Rowena was still staring at the pile of grass. 'Oh dear.'

'I've been thinking.'

'Oh dear.'

'Thinking deeply, in fact.' For a while it didn't seem as if she was going to continue, but Helga waited it out while she gathered her thoughts into order. Eventually she finished: 'Thinking about…my parents, and things.'

'Ah,' said Helga. She set down the book. 'Yes?'

'Yes. You see…I don't remember them much.'

'I know you don't Ro, neither do I. You were very young.'

'Yes, I know. I remember that. I remember...I remember they were idiots.'

'Okay.'

'But…they were _nice _idiots.'

'Oh. Okay.'

Rowena sighed and continued to kill the grass with her fingers. Helga frowned and watched her.

'They were very nice people, Ro, everyone says so,' she told her, reassuringly. 'It wasn't their fault you were born a girl and Richard was a boy—'

'Oh, it's not that, not the inheritance…rubbish. Well, I don't think it is, anyway.'

'Why? Is there something wrong?'

'Not really…_wrong_, so much as…oh…' She sighed and turned to her friend, before declaring: 'Helly, I want my own school.'

'…Ah?' Helga managed, slightly taken aback.

'I know I don't have enough money or enough characteristics or—or a penis,' she added, hurriedly, 'and I don't have enough knowledge to teach all the subjects, but that's what teachers are for, aren't they? If we could just…if we could just combine me and you with rich and male then…it could happen, couldn't it Helly?'

After a rather startled pause, Helga replied, 'Um…'

'Couldn't it?'

'Well…I don't know Ro, I've never started my own school before. It'd be very difficult.'

'But we could,' she insisted. 'We could do it. We can do anything, remember? That's what you told me.'

'Ro, when I said that I was talking about sneaking into the boy's dormitory to put lizard eyes on Slytherin's pillow in fifth year. This is different. This is serious. This is a…a career!'

Rowena refrained from saying, "You didn't think sneaking into the boy's room was serious? I was groped by Matthew Smith!"

Instead she said, 'Careers are _good _Helly! We've got sturdy brains between us; wouldn't it be a shame wasting them raising demonic little children on a farm somewhere? Wouldn't you rather _do _something with your life?'

'But…but...failure!' she cried, desperately. 'Doom!'

'Live for the moment, Helly! Look at Lady Summers,' she said, gesturing to the red-haired elderly witch, who stalked the grounds like an angry, wrinkled cat. 'She took all the chances we'd have to take, and look at where she is now! The most reputable school of magic in the world…hell, the only school of magic in the world.'

'That undermines it's reputability a little bit, Ro.'

'Come on, Helly. I don't want to be snuffed out the same way my parents were. Completely…poof…forgotten.'

'Oh, they're not forgotten,' Helga chipped in, reassuringly, 'they're—'

'Yes they are,' Rowena interrupted, 'and don't tell me otherwise. Leaving their only daughter in the care of a drunken old lady who talks to her stuffed animals, that's no way to go! I want to _do _something, Helga! Come on, please…can we?'

Helga gargled for a moment. She managed: 'We're _seventeen_, you mental bitch!'

'So if it fails,' Rowena pressed on, grabbing desperately at her sleeve, '_then _we give up! _Then _we launch Operation Snare-a-Man, with our young and lovely fertile bodies! Besides,' she added, as Helga wrinkled her nose at the thought, 'I'll be eighteen in a couple of months.'

'Ro…you're insane.'

'Does that mean we can do it?'

Helga rolled her eyes exasperatedly, but smiled anyway. 'We can try, Ro. But I'm not promising anything.'

'Wheee!' said Rowena, and threw the pile of dead grass in the air in celebration.

She leaned back against the tree as Helga shook her head and continued to read. The sun was still burning, the sky was still clear and the children still screamed curses at each other. But, for Rowena, the future was quickly taking shape…

She threw a shoe at a first year for good luck.

Right on the nose.

_Yes._


	3. Chapter 3: SheDevil

**Chapter Three: Love Nest of the She-Devil**

'Oh, _crap_.'

Having spent the weekend at a euphoric high, daydreaming and occasionally saying "wheee!" as she so often did in times of celebration, Rowena had proceeded to find Monday and Tuesday almost unbearable.

Suddenly, every problem imaginable presented itself in Rowena's mind. She'd woken up on Monday morning expecting to feel as elated as the day before, and so was rather bemused to wake up mumbling, 'What if no one's rich enough?'

The only person angrier about this than Rowena was Elvina, who snapped, 'My life is approaching its dismal end and all you can talk about it money?'

Since then, Rowena — and everyone else around her — realised she was mumbling to herself more than was strictly healthy.

In potions, she was awarded a detention for asking, 'Who has that much money anyway?' in the middle of a reading from a text book. Her insistant cry of, '_Nobody_, that's who!' only made matters worse.

Tuesday beckoned with the same tight, worried feeling in her stomach and a mumble of, 'What if there aren't any teachers?'

Elvina and the other girl in the dormitory, Mary Croswell, looked at her strangely as she sat up.

'Bronwyn,' said Elvina, slowly, 'were you dreaming about…teachers?'

'What? No!'

'Well you look quite pale and anxious, and you just said "any teachers"…'

'God no!'

Mary, a rather skinny, freckled girl with dramatic eyes, nodded slowly. 'If you deny it I'll believe you, Rowena.'

'I deny! I deny!'

'She's lying,' said Elvina, confidently.

Wednesday had arrived with the same feeling, but luckily Rowena managed to stop herself saying, 'No man would want to do it,' positive that Elvina and Mary would have had a field day had she done so.

It wasn't until six o'clock that evening Rowena remembered her meeting with Slytherin in the library.

'Oh, crap,' she said again, seeing the potions master pass, reminding her of her dreaded fate.

'What is it?' Helga asked, wondering if this was another mumble to herself.

'I'm supposed to meet Slytherin in the library in fifteen minutes!'

'If you run straight there you might be able to—'

'I can't, I've got to run up to my dormitory and get the notes and books and change my dress, dammit all I've got grass stains on this one, I'm sure he'd be over the moon with all the insults he could get out of this, _dammit!_ I wanted to be there early, too, so I could look superior when he arrived! _Dammit!_'

With this final cry of dammit she gathered her bag and ran off in the direction of Winter house, disrupting a very busy Elvina and Welland Marshtone as she burst into the dormitory (eyes shielded in advance).

'Hey!' Elvina squealed and, judging by the thud that followed, pushing Welland onto the floor.

'Hey!' said Welland, in some pain.

'Won't be two minutes got to get my books where's my notes here they are have you seen my dress never mind I'll clean the stain off in the bathroom what time is it oh dammit all!' Rowena said, in one big breath, running in the direction of the bathroom.

'This isn't an _orgy_, you know!' Elvina snapped after her.

* * *

Making a half-hearted attempt to wipe the sweat from her forehead and cool herself down with a heavy text book, Rowena finally entered the library. It was a large, dark, stone room, decorated with red drapes and furnishings that gave it a faint resemblance to the headquarters of an imaginary evil genius.

Rowena felt quite at home here, among the immaculate rows and rows of books. The gaps between the rows were very narrow and dark, the looming shelves obscuring the sunlight that streamed in through the long, cathedral-like windows. It was all rather poetic.

She made her way to the other side of the library, detouring around the shelves. Slytherin sat alone at a bench, reading quietly from a thick volume in his hands.

Right on cue, as he looked up, she hit herself in the face with the thick astronomy book she'd been using to fan her face with.

'…Ouch,' she mumbled, rubbing her jaw.

Slytherin raised an eyebrow and, in mock confusion, said, 'Hang on, aren't you supposed to be hitting _me _in the face?'

'I would if I could, Slytherin, I really would,' Rowena scowled, taking a seat opposite him.

'Oh, come now Ravenclaw, that hurts. I'm only human. If you cut me, do I not bleed?'

'Do you want to find out?'

He grinned. 'Nought to insulting in less than five seconds, I think that's a new record.'

'Hooray,' she muttered, 'rejoice. Let's just get this over with, shall we?'

'Certainly. I'm only here to provide the brains of the operation.'

'On the one hand, I'm inclined to agree with you. On the other hand, go screw yourself.'

'As always, dear Ravenclaw, you're about as charming as rabbit faeces at the breakfast table.'

'Sorry, what did you say? I have a tendency to drift off while you're speaking. I think it's the boring drawl of your voice.'

'Sorry, what did you say? I tend to drift off while you're speaking. I think it's because you talk a load of utter crap.'

_'No_, it just _sounds _that way because you're so used tohearing yourself speak!'

'You know, Ravenclaw, you'd probably be better looking if you didn't rant so much.'

'You'd probably be better looking if you ran head-first into a wall!'

'Incredibly tempting. I see it worked wonders on you.'

'Just because I hold a biased opinion doesn't mean you're not an _ignorant, rude, arrogant and irritating scumbag!_'

Slytherin nodded in approval. 'Very good, Ravenclaw, you're improving.'

She waited for him to turn this into a further insult. He didn't.

'Oh,' she said, proudly, calmly down a touch, 'I am, aren't I? _And _I got the last word. That means I won.'

He grinned at her naivety. 'Not particularly. I have a few left over for next time I see you, whereas you're going to have to go back to your dormitory and think up a brand new tome of them.'

'Shut up,' said Rowena. She realised she may have just sacrificed her winner's position.

He shrugged. 'It'll make the homework more difficult, but I'm sure you can manage. You're nearly half an hour late as it is.'

'I had to rush.'

'Is that why you have a big wet patch on your thigh and your hair's a mess?'

'I had a stain on my dress. Grass stain,' she added quickly, seeing the amusement in his eyes, 'from sitting down at break time. And I'll thank you to not look at my thigh.'

'You're welcome. It's no problem of mine that you were late,' he said, giving her the same superior look she'd intended to give him upon arriving early, 'I quite like this library. Reminds me of home.'

Of course it did. She could all-too easily imagine him sitting here with a white cat on his lap, cackling maliciously between mumbles of "I've been expecting you, Meester Tiddles".

'Cold,' she mumbled, 'dark, harsh, draughty. Must be like a trip back inside the womb.'

He smirked, and picked his bag from the floor; evidently struggling as it was weighed down with books, bottles and parchment, but he didn't respond.

Rowena got the feeling that she may have just crawled back into first place.

'Did you bring this one?' he asked, withdrawing a book and determindley changing subject.

'Which?'

'The great big black bugger, I don't know what it's called.'

Rowena rolled her eyes and searched through her bag for a book similar to the one Slytherin had. She found it: a black, leather bound volume with several pages missing towards the end, and a slip of paper somewhere inside that marked the first time she and Helga had passed notes in class. At the bottom of the conversation was Professor Harper's signature, as he gave them both detentions. It was kept for sentimental reasons.

'Now,' said Slytherin, warningly, 'we're going to do this essay perfectly, got that? No drifting away from the point or drawing around the edges.'

'What do you take me for?'

'I've sat in behind you in potions for three years, Ravenclaw. I'm not willing to sacrifice my perfect potions mark for a conversation about how pretty Matthew Smith's hair is, or how stupid he is. Although he _is_ rather stupid, now really isn't the time. I'm going to need a good grade from every one of these ridiculous lessons, unless I plan on getting cut off from father's money. Ha. Well, not charms, because frankly that's just a long streak of piss if ever there was one—'

He continued to speak, but Rowena stopped listening. Instead she stared, mouth slightly agape, directly into his eyes with a strange expression on her face.

'—but that's not the important—what?' he demanded, catching sight of this.

Rowena continued to gawp.

'Ravenclaw, stop gawping. You look like you're having some kind of fit.'

The gawping continued.

'Your eyes have gone weird. Are you…oh Gods, are you having a psychic episode?'

Rowena abruptly ceased gawping. She looked slightly surprised and slightly happy, as if a brilliant idea had just occurred to her.

'Slytherin,' she said, smile broadening, 'would you like to set up a school?'

'With you? Piss off.'

This was the kind of thing never mentioned in Hogwarts: A History.

The library suddenly a lot quieter than usual, as if the atmosphere held a bated breath, Rowena and Salazar stared at each other. In Slytherin's case, this was quite disbelievingly.

'You're joking, aren't you?'

'Not at all,' Rowena assured him.

'School…'

'Yes.'

'Founded…'

'Yes.'

'With you?'

'Oh, not just me. Helga too.'

Slytherin rolled his eyes and muttered, 'Oh, well then, that's convinced me. Deciding vote, she was.'

Rowena sat back in her chair, feeling silently delighted. She crossed her arms and smiled sweetly at him. This only served to infuriate him.

'Ravenclaw, you're concerning me.'

'You can argue all you like,' she grinned, 'you're still doing it.'

'I'm what? No, I never agreed to it. No, Ravenclaw, and stop looking at me like that! It's weird.'

Rowena laughed merrily.

'You've lost the plot, haven't you?' he demanded, determinedly avoiding her gaze. 'If you're so desperate to avoid doing potions homework with me, you can just say so and bugger off. There's no need to fake multiple head wounds so you can go to the infirmary—'

'There's nothing wrong with my head, thank you, and I'm more than capable of doing this essay on my own if necessary.'

'In which case, stop acting more delusional than you already are and find page two hundred and four.'

Rowena did so, though she continued to smile to herself delightedly. After a quarter of an hour working in near-silence, Slytherin snapped:

'For God's sake, woman, stop smiling like that. You're working with me, by rights you should have a sharp instrument at my jugular by now.'

Rowena beamed.

Another quarter of an hour later, Slytherin still wasn't happy.

'You look ridiculous with that grin.'

'Oh dear,' said Rowena.

'Like a really cheerful donkey.'

'Apologies.' She didn't stop smiling.

A further half an hour later, Slytherin threw his quill down and gave an exasperated sigh. 'Fine,' he said, 'we'll talk about it.'

Rowena clapped her hands in celebration and snapped her book closed.

'I haven't agreed,' he added hastily, the look of victory on her face worrying him, 'but if it'll stop you smiling like a weird pig in mud, we'll bloody talk about it, alright?'

'Agreed.'

Salazar sighed and waved a hand in her direction. 'Talk, then.'

Rowena drew a deep breath, before explaining, 'I've always wanted to have my own school but there's several things that could stop it coming to pass. You, Mr Slytherin, may be the answer to some of them.'

'…Right…' said Slytherin, obviously struggling to come to terms with things. 'And how is that, exactly?'

'You, me and Helga can be the school founders. All of us! Although there are several hundred – nay, thousand – things I'd rather do than voluntarily spend time with you — and to be fair, I'm sure you feel the same way — well, at least I know you.'

His eyebrows rose. 'Basically,' he summarised, the look of disbelief still etched on his face, 'I'm the best of the worst people you could ask to…start a school with?'

'Yes. Though you fulfil other requirements as well.'

'Such as?'

'Well, you're rich, aren't you?'

'Yes…'

'And you have the right equipment.'

'What equipment?'

'Trouser equipment.'

Salazar looked slightly startled. 'Ravenclaw, do you want me to _found_ a school, or have sex with one?'

'Found one, preferably. Whatever else you do I'll leave up to your own discretion.'

Sighing, and looking very much like he feared her answer, he asked, 'Pray tell, Ravenclaw: why are the contents of my skivvies such a vital function in securing the success of a school?'

'It's got to be co-run by a man,' Rowena told him, and explained Helga's theory of male supremacy regarding school governing. Slytherin nodded slowly as she did. He still didn't seem to be buying into it.

'Mm-hmm,' he mm-hmm-ed, nodding again. Clearly humouring her, he asked, 'And how much do you think it would cost, exactly, for me to co-run the thing?'

Rowena shrugged, sticking out her chin determinedly. 'How much do you have?'

'Well, let's see…cost of castle, cost of equipment, cost of furnishings et cetera, plus other anonymous expenses…definitely _not enough_. There'd have to be at least two other rich gits putting the money forwards, and I know for a fact that's not going to be you and Hufflepuff. I've seen your houses.'

'But you're rich!' she insisted, ignoring the latter part of his statement. 'Stinking, filthy rich!'

'My family is "stinking, filthy"rich,' he corrected her, 'I just happen to be moderately well-off.'

'Couldn't you ask them for some—'

'No,' he said, firmly.

'Well…well, what do you suggest, you smug genius?' Rowena demanded, prodding him forcefully in the chest.

He looked down at her finger, seemingly amused by it. 'I suggest you stop coming up with such ridiculous ideas and bringing them to me. And then I suggest you stop poking my nipples. Dreams don't come true, Ravenclaw. You know that, don't you?'

'This one will,' she insisted, though her voice shook slightly, 'this one has to.'

'And what makes your case so different?'

'I…' she faltered and looked down at her hands for a second. Then she quickly looked up, and met him in the eye with a look so determined he jumped slightly.

'I saw it,' she said, 'are you happy now? I know it's going to happen because I've _seen _it.'

His sneer vanished for a second, but quickly returned. 'What are you talking about, Ravenclaw?'

'You know just now, before I put the idea forwards? Remember my eyes going funny and I couldn't look away from you?'

He shrugged and smiled. 'It's a common effect I have.'

'…Eugh, well, that's when I saw it.'

'Saw what?'

'The future! I saw the school, a dirty great castle on a hill, and you, me, Helga and…and some other people, I couldn't make them out. But we were there Slytherin! You were there! Everything looked fine to me. So I don't care how much you argue, because I know you'll yield eventually because I saw you there, so…' She stuck out her tongue and concluded, 'Neurgh.'

Any other day, Slytherin would have spent at least ten minutes mocking her "neurgh". Today, however, following the speech she'd just rattled off, he just stared ahead of him, eyebrows knotted in concentration. Rowena held her breath, not wanting to interrupt his flow of thoughts.

After a long pause, he said, 'You're lying, aren't you?'

'No,' said Rowena. 'You know my great-grandmother was a Seer, don't you?'

'Of course,' he mumbled, offended she was challenging his authority of peerage and ancestry. 'She was the only one in your area. I just wasn't sure you'd inherited anything.'

'Nothing but mild psychic abilities and a dazzling smile,' said Rowena, unable to resist the comment.

'I mean, there were all those rumours in third year when you claimed to have seen a kid with a lightening scar on his head…'

'I never understood that one, either.'

'…Hmm…' He sat up from his slouch and looked her in the eye once more. 'I'll think about it.'

'Wheee,' said Rowena, quietly.

'I'm only thinking, mind you. No promises.'

'Okay.'

'You do realise this is the most absurd idea in history, don't you?'

'Us working together? Yeah.'

'We'd need more people,' he said, and, upon seeing Rowena's delighted expression he added, 'If anything was to happen. IF. I'm only thinking about it.'

'Could you let me know by tonight?'

'Don't push it.'

Rowena didn't say another word about it, instead quietly resuming the writing of the potions essay. She still smiled to herself, though.

Poor Slytherin. A small part of her wanted to tell him she hadn't seen anything of the future since third year, which she put down to sheer fluke.

A larger part of her rejected this idea, and laughed.

* * *

Thursday morning presented a selection of emotions to Rowena. First came the shock of, Dear God, did I invite Slytherin? This was followed by regret: Oh God, I invited Slytherin. Then sadness: He's never going to say yes! Then happiness: Well, he practically said yes last night.

Then fear: Er, why's Elvina looking at me like that?

She was sat at the foot of her bed, fixing her with a venomous glare through narrowed eyes. Very slowly, she said, 'Hello, Bronwyn.'

'Er, hello, Elvina. Is some something wrong?'

'Don't play dumb with me, Ravenpaw. You know your guilt.'

'Raven_claw_, Elvina. Ravenclaw.'

'You know your guilt!' Elvina repeated, slightly hysterically, and inevitably ignoring her.

'Sorry,' she said, stifling a yawn, 'I just woke up. You're going to have to remind me.'

'Here's a hint: It rhymes with "dove vest".'

Rowena frowned in concentration, wondering what on earth a dove vest was and what could rhyme with it.

'Shove…pest?' she ventured.

'Love.'

'Love pest?'

'Nest.'

'Love nest? What? What are you talking about?'

'Love nest, Ravenclaw, love nest! Love nest, love nest, love nest!'

'Elvina, repeating it five times doesn't mean it makes more sense!'

'You!'

'Me?'

'Salazar!'

'Who?'

'Slytherin!'

'Oh,' she nodded in comprehension for a few seconds, before realising this still made absolutely no sense. 'Slytherin?'

'And you!'

'Look, Elvina, you've got to stop saying the same thing over and over again! If I didn't understand it the first time I'm hardly going to understand it the twelfth time unless you actually explain—'

'Explain? You want me to _explain _the dove vest?'

'You're doing it again!'

'Don't pretend you don't know!'

'I've no need to pretend!'

Elvina scowled and inched further towards Rowena, who cowered behind a pillow for protection. 'Oh, I know,' she seethed, nodding slowly, 'I know all about you and Salazar, setting up a little love nest together on a hill. In a castle. I can't understand it! Why would he fancy _you?_'

Rowena sighed, very annoyed at how impossible it was to have secrets in the school. 'Elvina, we're not — hang on, why _wouldn't _he fancy me? No! Forget it, that's beside the point. We are most certainly _not _buying a love nest together, alright? How did you hear that anyway?'

Elvina didn't seem to be buying into her denial. 'News travels fast when I'm stood behind the bookshelf, spying.'

'Oh. Yes, I think I've heard that saying.' She narrowed her eyes. 'Why were you spying on me?'

She wrinkled her nose in distaste and replied, 'You? Not likely, Bronwyn. I was watching my Salazar, making sure he didn't fall into the arms of a licentious hussy like you!'

'He—you—what?—_I'm_ the licentious hussy around here?'

Elvina sniffed, slipping back into her snubbed admirer act. 'You can do whatever you want Bronwyn; nothing can bring Salazar back to me.'

'But – but you never went out with him!'

'Don't rub it in, you impious lady of the night!'

'Hey!'

'Oh, what could have been!'

'Please.'

'Woe!'

'Elvina.'

'Pain!'

'Shut.'

'Sorrow!'

'Up!'

'What?'

Rowena sighed and crawled out of bed, all the while watched by the glaring eyes of Elvina. 'Look,' she said, pacing the room in exasperation, 'I have no intention of living with Slytherin for the rest of my life, and as far as I can tell he feels the same way about you.'

'Gasp! You wanton—'

'Sorry to disappoint you, but there it is. While we're on the subject, Crispin Lightfoot is a complete tit and he walks like a duck. I was merely asking Slytherin if he'd like to provide the finances to set up a school with me and Helga, to which I haven't received any reply. If you want to get into his skivvies, go ahead; you have my permission, if not that of the man himself.'

Elvina's hands twitched slightly; Rowena suspected she was fighting the urge to wring her neck.

'Oh,' she gasped, at long last, voice shaking with fury, 'a school, you say?'

'Yes – for young witches and wizards.'

'A school that holds you as a headmistress and Salazar as the treasurer? Will it be a school for training scarlet women of negotiable affection?

'I really wish you'd stop implying I was a prostitute—'

'Funny how you failed to invite the people actually richer than Salazar and went straight to him, isn't it? Your so-called "worst enemy", hmm? Even I'm richer than him! Lots of people are richer than him, but no, you go straight to Salazar like you're his best friend in the world, you impure lady of loose morals and sinful—'

'Do you want to help?'

'Yes!'

It wasn't until Elvina had left the dormitory some fifteen minutes later, Rowena silently cursing her as she left, that Samuel cascaded through the window, dispersing her things across the room and dropping a rolled-up note on her lap.

Still haunted by the joyous cries of Elvina as she skipped around the room ("Oh Bronwyn, it'll be so fun, you and me in a castle together for even more years and years and years! And my Salazar will be there too! Won't it be wonderful? And if you ever wanted to leave the school to never return, well…"), Rowena was hesitant to open the letter at first. Right now, she couldn't stand to even look at the girl's squeaky handwriting.

However, with a slight smile that turned into an annoyed frown, she saw the writing was actually that of Slytherin.

The note read:

_FINE I'll do it, Goddamn you, rancorous she-devil._

_Yours,_

_SS_

Rowena sighed. They probably wouldn't include this part in Hogwarts: A History, either.


	4. Chapter 4: The Third Rule

**Chapter four: The Third Rule**

_Mother and Father,_

_Let's get this over quickly, shall we?_

_I am:_

_Healthy;_

_Fond of the beard;_

_Not using the above phrase as a euphemism for sexual practise._

_I am __**not**__:_

_Married;_

_Busy spawning a pureblood heir to the Slytherin line;_

_Raising an army of the un-dead to pray on the souls of the living deemed unworthy;_

_Going to cut my hair._

_I may, however, have finally landed a career that captures my interest and could provide, if so wished, a key to achieving the above points. Except the last one. I refuse to offer you any further details as I am sure you will make your own investigations anyway, in which case I say bugger you._

_Yours,_

_Salazar_

_PS, Please may I have some more money?_

* * *

June continued to be hot, sticky and uncomfortable. Sat in their usual outdoor spot beneath the kind of canopy of tree branches, Rowena had just finished telling Helga of the most recent developments in the school department.

Birds sang. Branches moved in the gentle, warm breeze. The sun winked in the clear, blue sky. Helga Hufflepuff looked ready to foam at the mouth.

'S-S-Slythie…' she managed to stammer, after a stunned pause.

'Um…yes,' said Rowena, discreetly shielding herself behind a book.

'You're - you're kidding, aren't you?'

'Yes!'

'You're not kidding, are you?'

'…No.' She winced. 'Sorry.'

Helga's mouth fell slightly agape, and stayed that way for some time. Looking closely, Rowena wondered if her eyes were glazed over.

'Helly?' Rowena ventured, after a few silent moments. 'Are you alright?'

'I…I'm in shock,' she said, a look of despair on her face, 'I think I need to lie down and…die.'

'Come on Helly,' Rowena pleaded, discreetly edging further towards her friend in case she should live up to her word. 'You've got to trust me on this.'

'I trust you, Ro, but not Slytherin! He's—he's pure evil!' she cried, never one for melodrama.

'Oh come on,' said Rowena, with a dismissive wave of her hand, 'I'm sure he's not _evil_-evil.'

'Pah!'

'Well, not _pure _evil. More…more of a shouting at old ladies and laughing at injured children kind of evil, rather than torturing bunnies and setting villages on fire. Right?'

'Wrong!'

'Helga! Look at his face,' she said, gesturing to Slytherin who approached them grumpily from several yards away. 'Isn't that a face you'd trust with your bunny rabbits? Or villages, for that matter?'

'He wouldn't hurt bunnies or village folk.'

'Exactly.'

'…He'd turn the village folk against each other until he achieved civil war, then provoke the bunnies into a bloody uprising against the surviving villagers and force them to crown him as their leader!'

Rowena nodded grudgingly. 'Ok, you're probably right. In which case, we'll just have to just enforce a restriction on how many bunnies we let him get his hands on.'

'Ro—'

'Helly, he's rich! We need him! We'll just make a conscious effort to avoid contact with him at all costs.'

'Can we start now?' Helga asked quietly, as he reached them.

Towering above them, with arms folded and head held high, Slytherin smirked. The mere shaping of his lips was an action all of its own, as was the narrowing of his eyes as he glared down at Rowena like some kind of vengeful god.

Eyes squinted, with a hand on her brow to protect herself from the sun behind his head, Rowena prompted:

'Yes?'

'Rules,' he said, in response.

'Rules?'

'If I'm going to go ahead with this God-awful plan, we need to lay down some _rules_.'

Rowena glanced at Helga. Helga shook her head violently. 'Er…such as?'

'First of all,' he said, leaning against a tree, 'any money I put into this will be returned to me within a month, should it fail. Alright?'

Rowena and Helga exchanged glances, the latter girl shrugging.

'Alright,' said Rowena, also shrugging.

'Secondly, my family's colours are, and always have been, green, black and silver. This will continue for as long as I see fit; on no account will the Slytherin colours become any shade of pink, yellow, blue or any other colour that looks overly cheerful in pastel. Alright?'

'Er…okay.'

'Thirdly, I will not have anything to do with a school that contains either of your names in the title; no Hufflepuff's School of How to Be Incredibly Dull or Ravenclaw's Study of How to Achieve the Most from Your Coiffure. Agreed?'

'Oh,' said Rowena, quite disappointed, 'alright. I suppose.'

'Next, you should be aware I have special dietary requirements.'

'Virgin blood?'

'Wheat, actually.'

'Oh. Alright.'

'Next rule: I will be teaching the lesson of my choice when term begins. Agreed?'

'As long as it's not charms or transfiguration,' said Rowena, 'Helga and I are doing those.'

Rolling his eyes, he replied, 'Oh good Lord, how disappointed I am. Charms and transfiguration are my two favourite subjects in the world—'

'Alright, alright,' she waved a hand. 'Whatever.'

'Excellent.' He bristled proudly and, with a vicious little grin, declared, 'Final rule: as the only financier of this stupid project I will be in the highest position of power, particularly over _you _sorry little plebs. When I say "here", you'll come running. When I say "talk", you'll tell me all I need to know. When I say "jump", you'll—'

'—Kick you in the privates,' Rowena interrupted, 'no chance, Slytherin. No deal.'

'Oh, fine. I knew it was a long shot. Everything else is agreed?'

'I hate your face,' said Helga, staring at him through steely eyes, 'I sodding hate your face.'

Salazar grinned. 'That's a yes?'

Rowena shrugged. 'I'm fairly sure she wasn't aware she was saying that out loud, but yes, certainly.' She had a sudden brainwave, and added, 'But now you have to agree to _our _rules.'

'Oh, ye Gods…'

'First rule!' Rowena began excitedly, before trailing off. She turned to Helga, and the two of them carried out a hushed conversation that lasted for several minutes. Occasional giggles and hisses of "Eugh!" escaped the conversation. Salazar worked intently on raising his eyebrows and looking impatient, every so often leaning forwards in a vain attempt to hear in. He was fairly certain "bunnies", "Satan" and "utter tit" were mixed in there.

'Thought of anything yet?' he eventually demanded, quite sure he was being made a fool of.

'Stop being so impertinent,' Rowena replied, readdressing him at long last. 'Now, first rule: any attempts made to begin a rebellion of any kind, involving any type of domesticated pet or local person, must be quashed immediately.'

'What?'

'Just agree!'

'Fine, I agree. You utterly strange people,' he added, as Helga sighed in relief.

'Second rule: please make an active effort to be less of a git.'

'Can't promise anything.'

'Third rule,' she continued, ignoring him in favour of the final victory: 'once you've promised to support us financially, you can't break this promise and abandon the idea until at least six months past the opening date of the school, _no matter what other arrangements are made_.'

'Hold on,' said Slytherin, cautiously, 'I'm not sure I like the sound of this rule.'

'It's the last one,' Rowena pleaded, 'and if you agree to this one, you can even forget about the first two if you want. Oh, not the first one,' she added, in response to Helga's worried expression.

He appeared to consider this. 'OK,' he said, finally. 'Agreed.'

'Excellent. Now, promise.'

'What?' he asked, exasperatedly. 'Promise what, exactly?'

'The terms of the third rule are that you must promise to help set up the school, and not abandon us regardless of anything said or done following the time the promise was made.'

'Such as?'

'I don't know,' she said, with forced innocence, 'just any problems that may arise or ideas you don't agree with, for example. Not until after the first six months the school has been opened.'

Slytherin looked bored as he drawled, 'Right, Ravenclaw. Whatever you say.'

'Repeat after me, Slytherin.'

He sighed and nodded. 'Fine.'

'I promise,' Rowena prompted.

'I promise,' he repeated, hand held over heart in a mock display of truthfulness.

'That I, Salazar Slytherin,'

'That I, Salazar _William _Slytherin,'

'Will adhere — you're middle name is William?' Rowena wondered aloud, distracted from the subject at hand.

'Do you want me to repeat that part?' he asked, sarcastically. 'Of course my middle name's William. Do you think my parents are really cruel enough to give me matching initials? Two _S_'s, of all things? Consider it some form of insurance, should I have been born with a speech impediment.'

She and Helga exchanged surprised looks, before Rowena continued:

'Will adhere to the rules set by Rowena Ravenclaw on this day,'

'Didn't _you_ get a middle name?'

'Beulah,' she mumbled, darkly, 'but you can leave that part out.'

Slytherin smirked once again. 'I, Salazar William Slytherin will adhere to the previous rules set by Rowena Beulah Ravenclaw on this day, and enjoy telling everyone that dark and horrible secret 'til death do I part…'

'Oh, do shut up.'

'Carry on talking, Ravenclaw, it's fun.'

'Ye Gods you're annoying. Then finish: I will not break this promise.'

'I will not break this promise. Beulah.'

Rowena glowered at him. Salazar continued to smirk.

Breaking the evil silence that radiated between them, Helga piped up: 'That's all sorted and official, is it?'

The other two nodded.

Salazar said, 'I don't suppose you're going to tell me these "other arrangements" I'm not allowed to disagree with yet?'

'Happily,' said Rowena, with a smile. 'You see, we've invited someone else to finance the school.'

Slytherin's face remained impassive, though anyone listening closely enough might have heard the phrase "Oh holy turnip" mumbled from the corner of his mouth.

'Are you interested?' she asked, gleefully.

'Of course I'm interested, Beulah,' he snapped, 'but dare I ask what imbecile you've dug up from under a damp rock, scraped off with a sharp stick and conned into this hopeless plan of a—'

'Elvina Hart.'

'_What?_'

Blinking in mock-innocence, Rowena asked, 'What is it, Slytherin? Does she annoy you, or something?'

'Oh, God…'

'Something the matter?'

'_Yes_, something's the matter!' he snapped. 'I'm going to have to wear a padlock on my trousers! I never thought I'd be rejecting perfectly attractive advances until the day I met that self-absorbed, proud, spoilt, self-obsessed, shallow — ugh - just piss off, Beulah!' With that he stormed off, mumbling curses under his breath.

'Remember,' Rowena called out after him, 'you did promise!'

They heard his faint, angry reply as he became a small, retreating figure in the distance, hands clenched by his sides: 'I know I promised, you scheming women of disreputable intentions!'

Rowena beamed happily. 'I feel good,' she announced, nodding proudly. 'Today has been a _good _day.'

Helga rolled her eyes. 'Certainly. I mean, we'll have to add an extra bear trap to our outgoings, but I'm sure we can spare the expense.'

'Oh, shush,' said Rowena, mildly, 'don't wee on my rainbow.'

'What?'

'Anyway, Elvina may be an idiot, but she's got money falling out of her skull.' She took a cheerful bite from an almost-neglected pastry, and added, 'I feel in no way morally compromised by the idea of milking that horny cash cow.'

'Milking the horny cash cow?' Helga repeated, eyebrows raising. 'That's the second nonsensical metaphor you've used in the last ten seconds. I'm worried about you.'

'You're weeing on my rainbow again,' said Rowena, sternly, 'stop it.'

'I just _wish_,' Helga sighed theatrically, laying back in the grass, 'wish that the gods had presented us with some mere opportunity of approaching somebody...well, approachable.' She wrinkled her nose. 'You know what I mean. A rough diamond in a pile full of willies.'

'A what?' Rowena laid down beside her. A white, dense cloud travelled slowly overhead. 'Was _that_ a metaphor?'

'_I just wish_,' said Helga, a little more pointedly, 'that somehow, in the short history of our lives, fate had opened up its majestic bosom and said, Rowena Ravenclaw, you know this opening a school business? Well, have you considered inviting someone who _doesn't_ deserve a slow and torturous death?'

'Like who?'

'Who?' She shrugged. 'Only fate can tell. Perhaps a tall, dark stranger; perhaps a tall, dark classmate with a huge inheritance and a boatload of academic skill and admirable leadership qualities and biceps like you've never seen - you know, the sort of person _perfect_ for headmastership and...' she sighed dreamily, 'and a variety of other things.'

'Oh,' said Rowena. 'You mean like Godric?'

Helga closed her eyes peacefully. 'Let it never be said you're not a genius, Ro.'

Rowena hit her with a breadroll.

* * *

_Dear Granny,_

_I don't know when you'll receive this letter, or if you'll understand it when you do. However, I think it's necessary to tell you that I will not be returning home at the end of term; instead I am to pursue my life ambition of founding a school of magic for young children across the country._

_I have already dealt with the purchasing of the castle with the assistance of two of my fellow founders, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin. If you recall, the Gryffindors are the red-haired family who own the land you visited last year (I believe you still owe them an apology for doing that to their uncle, you may have been inebriated but that's no excuse)._

_The Slytherins are related to the Gryffindors but are smarmier and dark-haired. They also happen to run the dungeon you were held in as a result of being drunk and disorderly outside their castle, but don't bother writing them an apology because if they discovered we were related I would just die._

_Helga Hufflepuff (don't pretend you don't owe __**her **__an apology) will also be co-running the school, as will Elvina Hart (fortunately for us all, you've never met her)._

_Thank you very much for all your years of care and the bottles of whisky you allowed me once a year; they caused quite a commotion in first year when Professor Harper caught Thomas Smith with the donkey._

_Yours,_

_Rowena x_

* * *

With only one week to go before the Hogwarts Five left school, Rowena found it perfectly evil that she had to write another three essays before being shown the door. Three essays, Professor Harper reminded her, evil smirk playing on his lips, all of which were four years overdue.

Of course, he'd have—

'Bronwyn!'

-seen her, four years ago, lounging in her seat and boasting that she hadn't finished her homework and Harper the Inbred Toad hadn't even noticed. He'd have written her name in a nice, clean book with the date noted clearly—

'Bronwyn!'

- beside it. Each and every single time she didn't hand in her essay he'd have smiled and mentioned nothing, thinking longingly about the day, just a week before she was set free forever and just like that he'd oh-so-casually mention, 'Ravenclaw, I'll need those essays in tomorrow. The ones you never did in your third year, remember?' Oh, how she'd love to throttle that slimy son of a melon —

'_Bronwyn!_ For God's sake woman, please turn your lights out! I _need _beauty sleep!'

Perhaps eleven o'clock at night wasn't the best time to start it, in fairness.

'Surely not, Elvina?' Rowena replied, dutifully.

'Flattery will get you everywhere, Bronwyn. Right now, it can take you into the common room to finish your damn essays!'

Rowena sighed and gathered up her things, grumbling as she did. 'I don't understand it, Elvina,' she mumbled, 'I'm sure there were essays you never finished throughout the years…'

'Only recently.'

'Well, why don't you have to finish them?'

'Because I'm a responsible adult, Bronwyn. As a responsible adult, what I can't solve with determination and effort, I solve by offering sex.'

Rowena froze. 'By offering _what?_'

'Oh, be an adult, Bronwyn.'

'Are you telling me—are you telling me you did—'

'Richard, yes.'

'Argh! You just called him Richard!'

'Well, we _are _on intimate terms!'

'I see, I see. That _is _effort and determination. Effort and determination not to gag!'

'Bronwyn! Richard was a very sensual man—'

'Eugh! Stop! Stop! Eugh! I'm blind! He's so…'

'Generous?'

'_Greasy!_' She shook her head, expression contorted. 'Christ in a dinghy, woman!'

'Do you want a detailed account of it?'

'_No!_'

'Then finish your essays in the common room! And-' looking slightly shameful, she added, 'make sure you don't tell anyone else. My mother _would _kill me!'

'Whatever,' Rowena snapped, grudgingly exiting to the common room mumbling something that sounded like "Even bloody _Harper_!"

She sat down heavily in her usual chair by the fire, this time ensuring no one else was present. Then she wrote a hasty owl to Elvina's mother, signing it with three kisses and a smiley face.

Her mind working somewhere else entirely, she began work on the second essay of the night: **Werewolves? There wolves.**

The feeling of satisfaction and a dream achieved hadn't quite sunk in yet; instead she was merely tired. Not merely tired, in fact, but utterly exhausted. She'd spent hour after hour explaining her story to curious classmates: no, she wasn't engaged, yes, she was completely sane, no, she had no intention of seducing either Godric or Slytherin, yes, she did have to take Elvina away from them and no one was more sorry about it than Rowena herself…

She'd made plans. They were damn good plans, too, and she'd be damned if they wouldn't damn work, damn it. She bought the castle…what was it called? Hoggle…Hogglesomething, yes that was it.

She'd written letters. Very careful and neat letters with proper grammar and punctuation and a few fancy words to boot. Godric was reproachful of her plans, at first. Her precious, precious plans! He'd agreed, though, soon enough.

Silly letters he wrote. All very official and proper, with signed agreements and very long words. Words like acquiesce, consortium, precarious and sleep…

…no, not sleep…

...damn essays, damn Harper, damn Elvina and her ditzy little head, damn…damn Slytherin, yeah, he'll…smothered with a...something, not a cat…damn…

_However, the snout of the werewolf is-_

'Bloody hell,' Rowena mumbled, sitting up quickly. It was always disconcerting, waking up with your face planted flat on a table. Evidently she'd fallen asleep over her essay; a position not notoriously conducive to academic success.

She pulled the parchment from her forehead, where it had stuck determinedly, and realised with an unhappy sigh that the ink was still rather wet when she'd landed. Now it stamped her face like a regretful tattoo.

Ye Gods.

Still, it could be worse. True, her back was in agony from being in such an uncompromising position for hours, she had a description of the snout of a wolf on her cheek and her dress was in a shockingly untidy state, but it could have been worse. At least it was only the early morning, so no one was around to witness her embarrassment-

'Matthew,' said a voice from the corridor outside, 'I've told you, I was only kissing him to make you jealous!'

'If you were trying to make me jealous, why did you only do it when I wasn't around?'

-I could be wrong, of course, Rowena thought, leaping speedily from her seat and in the direction of the bathrooms, teeth gritted and dress hitched high_._

'I didn't think it through!' Elvina insisted.

The door opened…she'd never reach the bathroom in time…a cupboard? It'd have to do!

She closed the door after her just in time: Elvina, Matthew and, by the sound of it, two other boys entered the common room.

'Excuse me,' said a quiet voice in her ear.

Rowena froze. She made a small choking noise. The she turned around, very, very slowly.

'...Slytherin?' she ventured, eyes bulging.

The cupboard was small and cramped, full of cleaning instruments, lost property and Salazar. Although he was illuminated only slightly by the thin streak of light that filtered into the cupboard from outside, there was no mistaking the black hair, green eyes and unusual abundance of pale…wet...skin?

_Oh flaming boob-box._

_'Slytherin!_' she whispered, fiercly. 'What in the name of hell are _you _doing in here?'

He calmly cocked an eyebrow. 'Oh I'm sorry, Ravenclaw, is this your privatecupboard?'

'Don't you dare act like _I'm_ the weirdo in here!'

'You have ink all over your face.'

'_You're naked!_'

'I most certainly am not, you nasty little pervert.' He raised his chin and added, 'I happen to be wearing a towel.'

'Oh thank God for that!' She glanced down briefly.

He leapt back, knocking a bucket over in the process. 'What the hell did you do that for?'

'I had to check!'

'I hope you're not making advances-'

'Look, just because we happen to be in the same small space and you happen to be unsuitably dressed for human contact, it doesn't mean I want anything to do with…anything. I didn't_ plan _this, you know!'

'Well what are you doing here?'

'Look at me! I have ink on my face and I'm a mess, and I heard voices! Vanity, Slytherin, think of my vanity!' She concentrated very intently on not looking him over again and, in the awkward silence, added, 'You?'

Salazar sighed. 'Look at _me_, I've just had a shower and I'm wearing a towel, and I heard voices. Nudity, Ravenclaw, think of my nudity. Dear God,' he added, 'you really are inky. Have you been rubbing your face on a squid?'

'I…fell asleep,' she admitted, with more than a touch of embarrassment. 'On my essay, if you must know.'

He cocked his head to one side and squinted. 'It's like making shapes out of clouds.' Rowena sighed and did her best to look annoyed. 'There's an inky teapot on you chin, and a kind of inky frog-beast on your forehead.'

'Eugh,' she replied, automatically, 'don't say that.'

'Don't fret, Ravenclaw, it's only ink.'

'No,' she mumbled, 'it's not that, it's…'

'What? What are you talking about?' He looked at her sternly, in a vain attempt to appear superior. This was slightly difficult, owing to the fact he was scantily clad in a cleaner's cupboard.

She was so amused by this thought, she disregarded any possible consequences and explained, 'I hate frogs. Have done for years. Horrible, slimy, croaking little creatures…down your dress…' she mumbled, as an afterthought.

'As a non-dress wearing member of the general public, please enlighten me: under what circumstances did you put a frog down your dress?'

'I didn't put it there, it just got there!'

Slytherin smirked. 'Tell me all about it, Ravenclaw. It'll make you feel better.'

'It certainly will not.'

'Do you want me to get Elvina's attention? Do you _want_ her to think we're engaging in some weird claustraphobic fetish act?'

'You wouldn't!'

'Try me.'

Rowena sighed, and recounted: 'I was only eight or nine, and my older brother Richard took me for a walk down to the village pond. And - and I started playing on the ducking stool, swinging back and forward over the water and it was so dark and murky, and, and, there were all these bubbly little things on the surface that just looked like pond scum, and - and I said to Richard, "What are those things?" and he said "Just forgspawn, nothing to be scared of", and - and - and next thing I knew I'd gone flying off into the water and landed right by it and I was suddenly set upon by this angry Mother Frog, and she leapt right at my face and dropped down the front of my dress, and, and all these other frogs appeared and started launching at me as well, and, and...oh god, the little webbed feet!'

By this point, she had become so caught up in her memory she didn't realise she was tugging the front of her dress, emitting croaking noises with a look of horror on her face.

Slytherin actually had to bite his forearm to stop himself laughing.

'Shut up,' Rowena demanded, snapping out of it, 'it wasn't funny!'

Slytherin was now close to eating his arm.

'Stop it! Someone's going to hear you!'

Slytherin realised it was rather difficult to secure a towel around one's waist while biting one's arm and trying to steady oneself against a mop to avoid falling over.

'Stop it now, Slytherin! I don't want to see anything nasty! Hasn't…hasn't anything as horrible as that happened to you?'

Slytherin sobered up and straightened the towel while Rowena concentrated all her energies on looking him in the eye. 'Well, a baby bit me, once,' he admitted.

'It did what?'

'Bit me,' he repeated, with an exaggerated shudder, 'I hate babies. We never talk of it again, inky.'

'Fine. Nudist.'

'Beulah.'

The voices outside the cupboard trailed off and a door closed after them.

Slytherin said, 'Shall we never speak of this again?'

'Deal. I would shake your hand, but…eugh.'


	5. Chapter 5: The Hogwarts Fourish

**Chapter Five: The Hogwarts Four-ish**

No more was said between Rowena and Salazar about the cupboard incident until the end of term, although Rowena tended to erupt into sudden bursts of laughter whenever the memory re-surfaced.

'Something the matter, Ro?' Helga asked.

'Just giddy,' she lied. It was her third outburst of the evening. Helga, sat beside her in the empty common room, was beginning to grow concerned.

'Giddy?'

'About leaving school. Just a few long hours more, Helly…'

'Twelve hours, twenty-seven minutes,' she replied automatically, rocking slightly in her seat.

'Right. Everything's ready to go, Helly,' she declared, her grinning face highlighted by the orange glow of the fire, 'in twelve hours and however many minutes we'll be at our own school! You and me' - then, in a quieter voice - 'and Godric and Slytherin and Elvina Tart.'

Helga giggled. 'Do you have a portkey ready?'

'Yeah. Taking us…' she flung her arm out in front of her in a dramatic way, finishing, '…North-East, to Scotland!'

'You're pointing south, to Devon.'

'Weeing on my rainbow,' Rowena warned her, glaring. 'Stop it.'

Helga smiled. 'Sorry, Ro. I can tell you're looking forward to this.'

'Oh, I _am_.'

'You've been laughing for days.'

Rowena very quickly suppressed another smile, and ventured, 'Helga…what would you say if I told you I'd been forced into an uncompromising position with a semi-naked Slytherin inside a broom cupboard?'

Helga blinked.

'Only kidding.'

Helga blinked again. Unable to find a suitable response, she threw her a fleeting look and read a book determinedly.

* * *

Twelve hours and twenty-six minutes later, after a celebration ceremony that lasted several long and dreary hours, school had officially ended.

Escorted from the large oak doors with some force, pupils were left to consider all their memories of the previous seven years and, as the headmistress said, "be grateful".

Eventually, only Rowena, Helga, Godric, Elvina and Slytherin remained on the school grounds. Rowena and Helga made forced, nervous conversation while Godric stood with shoulders back and eyes fixed on the horizon, and Elvina chatted with apparent ease to Salazar, who folded his arms and harboured murderous intent.

Finally, Slytherin spoke, interrupting Elvina mid-flow: 'Ravenclaw, are we ever going to leave or just stand around here until somebody gets punched?' He gave Elvina a warning look as he said so.

Rowena had actually been waiting for someone to initiate movement for a long time, but didn't say as much. Instead she replied, 'I'm ready whenever everyone else is.' She coughed. 'I suppose.'

'Are we expected to_ walk _there?'

'Of course not; I've got a portkey in my bag somewhere…' She rifled through her things until she reached a small leather pouch. 'Here it is.'

Salazar raised a cocky eyebrow. 'That is possibly the least impressive thing of yours I've ever seen. And I'm including your breasts on that list,' he added.

Godric promptly and politely slapped him around the head.

'Thank you,' said Rowena, curtly. She cleared her throat and delicately opened the pouch, pinching it between her index finger and thumb. The others followed suit.

'I hate your face,' Helga reminded Salazar. It was the last thing they saw before the ground beneath them vanished, the atmosphere spun around and a sharp tugging sensation caught their ribs.

After a few seconds of excruciating pain, they landed heavily on Scottish soil. Rowena fell, not at all gracefully, on her rear, a few metres from Godric, who seemed to have landed on his feet but at great expense of his knees. Salazar too was stood up, but other than a slight struggle with re-gaining his balance he appeared in perfect condition. Helga was on her back, caught under Elvina's legs, which she presently pushed away rather impatiently and scurried over to Rowena.

They found themselves collected around the base of a hill, on which stood a large, grey-stoned castle. It looked rather magnificent; vast and new, with towers and thin windows looking down on them. The incline that led up to it wasn't very steep, but covered a long distance.

'I suppose,' Helga began, uncertainly, 'I suppose this is it, Ro.'

'I suppose it is,' she agreed. Then, feeling it her duty to do so, she turned to the others and announced, 'Welcome…to Hogwarts.'

There was a strong, almost proud silence.

Salazar said: 'I hate it.'

Ignoring him on principle, Helga, Rowena and Godric made their way up to the castle while Elvina fussed over Slytherin. In order to escape, he quickly followed.

Now everyone had actually seen Hogwarts, and were all in one piece, the atmosphere seemed a little lighter.

'Does this fell odd to you, Ro?' Helga asked in a voice she couldn't quite fathom; it lay somewhere between genuine curiosity and utter terror.

'Not _odd_,' said Rowena, truthfully, 'but that's only because I don't think I've absorbed it yet.'

'It's very…'

'Big?'

'…grey.'

'Don't you like it?'

'I don't _not _like it,' she said, hurriedly, 'I'm just slightly surprised by the greyness. Could do with a splash of paint, maybe...something in pastel.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Lilac?'

They finished the walk in contemplative conversation. Personally, Rowena thought that a Mediterranian-style whitewash would brighten the place up, while Helga favoured a more cheerful pinkish theme - approximately, she said, the same shade Rowena's face had turned following the hike, unfit beast that she was.

The doors loomed into view. A handle dropped off.

'Ah,' said Rowena, uncertainly. She picked up the rust-gnawed knocker, and said, 'Yes...beautiful display of iron work. Locally-made, I believe.'

The others stared at her.

'Very sturdy,' she added, melting under the collective gaze. She sniffed it. 'Beautiful paintwork.'

'Shall we take a look inside?' Godric said, in a way that was less a question and more a comment on Rowena's condition.

Salazar said, 'For the love of all that is holy, yes.'

He obediently made his grand entrace, flinging the doors open with considerable force. It was something Godric tended to do with doors; apparently by accident, everywhere he went, doors were flung open. With muscles like those, timidly sidling into a room wasn't an option.

Rowena gasped upon seeing the interior. All she saw was stone. At first she had to convince herself she hadn't just walked into a rock; the stone floors spread from stone wall to stone wall, which supported a high stone ceiling. She glanced at Salazar's expression. That was stone too.

'This is very...' he began.

'Stony?' Elvina suggested, resting her head on his arm. He took a smart side-step out of her way.

'We can always decorate it,' Rowena said, in a voice probably described best as hysterical anxiety. Every one gave her a sideways glance; it seemed that this was the last thing on their mind. Still, it was the only thing she could think of, so she continued, 'Yes, we could try painting something, and then we could hang it on the wall and it will all be very pretty. Yes. A few candles here and there, and the tables of course, it'll brighten the whole place up. Yes...'

'Right,' said Slytherin, abruptly changing subject, 'this is a very charming castle and all, but where do I put my stuff?'

All eyes swivelled back to Rowena, who gave a slight groan. She rummaged through several sheets of parchment used to make notes on, and read, '"There are three towers and a dungeon suitable for permanent living accomodation. These lead to possible common rooms and dormitories for students of each school house…blah, blah…et cetera."'

'How many towers, did you say?'

'Three.'

'How many dungeons?'

'One.'

This statement was followed by a deliberate silence from the direction of Godric, Helga and Salazar.

'…_Oh_. That's four, isn't it?'

'No shit, Sherlock,' Salazar mumbled.

Then the conversation erupted all at once:

'Someone can sleep in the forest.'

'Really, Helga!'

'I was just saying—'

'I'm not adverse to sharing, wink wink—'

_'Salazar!'_

'Just saying.'

'I'll share with Sally-zar—'

_'Elvina!'_

'Actually forget I mentioned it-'

'Someone should leave.'

'God—what?'

Godric cleared his voice and declared — and he had a good voice for declaring, it had to be said — 'We only need four to run a school; I'm sure the combined financial input of only two investors will be enough to fund the venture for several years, if all goes well. One person could leave...' His eyes travelled down to his feet, which he shuffled uncomfortably.

There was a long pause, and then the babble broke out again.

'Helga,' Slytherin said, automatically.

'Why me?'

'Fine. Gryffindor.'

'But—!'

'Elvina? Elvina's unimportant.'

'Sally-zaaaar! I thought—'

'Oh, shut up. Ravenclaw.'

'Slytherin!'

'Dog eats dog, Ravenclaw.'

'Christ's sake, will you just stop suggesting names and—'

Apparently heartbroken, Elvina wailed, 'I think Sally-zar should leave! The destitute valleys of my heart are—'

'I provided most of the funds!'

'Remove Sally-zar from the barren desert of my lust tunnel—'

'Why _me?_ Why not Hufflepuff? She's poorest—oh, don't look at me like that, you know you are...'

'You're not even that good-looking, I was just being sympathetic—'

'But why can't we get rid of _Elvina?_'

'Because—'

For a moment, all were silent. Eyes travelled from Salazar to Elvina. Then back to Salazar. Then to the Portkey, which lay forgotten on the floor.

'Elvina, dear,' Slytherin said, tentatively, 'pass me that portkey, would you…?'

* * *

Several minutes later, as they stood around the great hall sincerely wishing for chairs, the image of Elvina saying "Ok, Sally-_zaar_," with one finger in the portkey as she picked it up was still imprinted on their conscience.

'Thank God she's gone.'

Those who _had _a conscience.

'It wasn't a _bad _thing,' Helga mumbled guiltily, glancing at the spot Elvina had vanished from.

'Probably for her own good,' Godric agreed.

Slytherin scoffed. 'Sure, Gryffindor. She really wanted booting out.'

'Shut up,' said Rowena, sternly. 'Have some respect, would you?'

The silence that followed was pensive, and would have signalled the end of the discussion if not for the fact that the Hogwarts Four were all aged around eighteen years old.

'Dibs on tower!' said Rowena, quickly.

'DIBS ON TOWER!'

'_Tower!_ Ha! Yes!'

* * *

Rowena yawned, and blew out the flickering candle next to her bed. It had been a very long day.

She stood by the window - _her _window - looking out into the grounds of Hogwarts. _Her_ Hogwarts. The height of the tower was, admittedly, making her feel rather dizzy— more so, even, than the thought of this being her new home.

Even more than the thought of teaching hundreds and hudreds of children in just a few short months.

More than the of thousands of unexplored rooms beneath her, all through the castle, draughty and expansive and dark and _waiting_ to be filled.

More, even, than the thought of Salazar Slytherin laying down peacefully underneath her...

She choked and quickly shook her head, immediately discarding those last thoughts. 'Not like _that_,' she said loudly, as if adressing an invisble crowd, 'I meant the dungeons. Shush! Stop it.'

She sighed.

She went to bed.

* * *

'Get up, Ro!' Helga squeaked from the other side of Rowena's door. It had to be Helga; only she could squeak like that at eight o'clock in the morning.

'Come in,' Rowena mumbled, groggily.

There was a faint bang, which was probably Helga walking into the door, then the sound of metal on metal as she unlocked it and walked in.

'No food?'

'No, you greedy lug. Come on, Ro! We're starting work today.'

Rowena turned on her side and looked at her friend. 'Yet,' she whispered, 'the thought of breakfast is still appealing...'

'You may have some toast. But _please _hurry downstairs, I don't like being left in a room with Salazar for too long. It makes me uncomfortable. Twitchy. _Homicidal_.'

'Salazar's...not much of a morning person,' she mumbled, inexplicably finding it her duty to defend him.

'He's an inbred tool, Ro, and if you don't come downstairs right now I'll have to murder him with a ladle.'

Confident she didn't want a ladle-related death on her hands so early in the business venture, Rowena obediently made her way downstairs. The route from the tower took some navigation; between the shock of the new and the shock of the moving staircases, journeys were less about getting from one place to another and more about not getting killed. Whoever first owned Hogwarts had a questionable sense of humour.

'This just isn't funny anymore,' Rowena muttered, as the corridor shifted underfoot. 'Imagine if the place caught fire! I think this constitutes a health hazard, don't you?'

'Ignore it,' said Helga, with a shrug.

'How?'

She shrugged again, smiling happily. 'It's quite fun, once you get used to it.'

'Good grief.'

'It's the classrooms you've got to watch out for,' she added, as the staircase finally ground to a halt. 'Real pain. I got groped by a windowsill earlier.'

Rowena stared at her friend for a moment, attempting to find the logic in this statement. She gave up when her migraine kicked in. 'A windowsill groped you. That's fine. Goddammit.'

Eventually reaching the entrance hall, Rowena's spirits weren't particularly raised by the presence of Slytherin, who sat alone before the dying fire. The hand that massaged his temples implied a serious headache that she had no sympathy for.

'Slytherin,' she said, with more than a hint of suspicion, 'were you inebriated last night, by any chance?'

He shrugged in a non-committal way and mumbled, 'Fruff.'

Rowena kicked him.

'Yes, then,' he said, groggily, 'since you insist on knowing. I was out on business, one thing led to another, the universe crystallised then melted around me and as I made myself feel loved and welcomed in the arms of the alcohol, I accidentally got a bit plastered and…' he waved a lazy hand, 'thus.'

'Do you realise nothing you just said made sense? What business were you doing in an _alehouse?_'

'Don't see why you're so angry. I found a few suitable teachers—'

'In an _alehouse?_'

'For God's sake Ravenclaw, we've already established that point. Go away now, daddy's got a headache.'

Rowena threw Helga a desperate look of appeal, which was responded to with a helpless shrug. 'You smell,' Rowena pointed out, helpfully.

'Why, thank you.'

'You stink like ale and hay and some kind of hoofed mammal.'

'So you have the nasal senses of a terrier as well of the vocal range of one? Glad to hear it. Actually, I'm not, so shut up.'

As a last-ditch effort to cause some form of annoyance, Rowena kicked the leg of his chair feebly and stormed out of the room. Slytherin grimaced at the noise.

'You're just lucky she didn't notice you bought all this furniture,' Helga mumbled uncomfortably, following her friend outside.

Salazar grinned and sunk further into the newly purchased chair. No, he thought happily, I'm just lucky neither of you noticed the donkey I hid in the bathroom.

* * *

According to_ Hogwarts: A History_: "Lady Ravenclaw and Lady Hufflepuff then did venture into the village of Hogsmeade, discussing most happily the events of late and spreading the word to the curious ears of the village people to much success." This was historical inaccuracy of the strongest kind.

'I'm going to kill that greasy, pointy-nosed man-bitch,' Rowena fumed, Helga suppressing giggles in exchange of a serious expression.

'It'll be alright,' she managed, striding to keep up with Rowena as she marched angrily down the hill that lead to the road.

'Pfft!'

'Pfft, Ro.'

'I think I'm going to kill him. I think I'm actually going to kill him! We've only been here one day and already he's inebriated!'

'Good job he's rich and we're desperate…'

'Yeah, I suppose,' Rowena said, slowing her pace and reverting to more of a relaxed tone. 'Oh, I love money. I hate Slytherin, but I love money. Shame he's got absolutely no wit about him and he's the most arrogant, boring and selfish—'

Helga tuned out for the duration of the rant, only tuning in again when they'd reached the outskirts of the village and Rowena concluded:

'…_so_ hard and _so _regularly he'll not even be able to _look_ at an owl without crying. Is this it?'

Helga consulted a guide book and reported, 'We're on the village outskirts; most places are about half a mile in—'

'We can send Godric in there tomorrow,' Rowena said impatiently, not wishing to encourage any suggestion of hard work, 'we'll just...test the water around this area.'

'Oh good, I'm thirsty. Is there anywhere we could…' Cringing slightly, as if the potential of the very word was enough to inflict mental anguish, she finished gingerly: 'Socialise?'

'Well this place looks, er, nice,' Rowena suggested, heading in the direction of the nearest building with Helga hot on her heels.

"Nice" was as much of an overstatement as was grammatically possible: the building was squat, grey and messy, with boarded-up windows and a door that creaked on its hinges. A warm wave of strong, musky scent filtered out into the street, tickling Rowena's nose in a way she found strongly irritating. She was on the verge of turning around and heading in another direction when a squat, grey-haired and messy woman - apparently co-ordinated with the building -appeared at the door and addressed them:

'Ye looking for something, ladies?'

Rowena glanced back to Helga, who quickly looked away for fear of being consulted, then as fluently as ever replied, 'Er, we were sort of looking around for, er, somewhere to, you know, have a drink and things.'

'"Things?" the woman repeated, eyeing her up suspiciously, 'What things would they be? Come ye to riot, to burn, to cause wicked mischief and anguish for a weak old gang? We don't have any of those things here! Are they the kind of things ye seek?'

'Er, no. I meant like a biscuit or something.'

'Oh, aye, biscuits we have.'

'Mm.'

'Well, well, in with ye, women!'

'Er, alright. Come on, Helly.'

The women gave them a final suspicious look with her enormous right eyeball before vanishing inside.

'I don't think we should—' Helga began uncertainly.

'We should,' said Rowena, definitely. She couldn't help but imagine how disappointing it would be to die at the hands of a woman who was clearly a mad tramp.

_And anything Slytherin can do, I can certainly do better…_

They shuffled uncomfortably inside, where the musk hit them stronger in the face. Their first impression of the place was of grandeur and opulence, though this was quickly undermined by the ragged details: the red fabric that donned the chairs and windows was faded and torn at the seams, the furniture was actually made of other pieces of furniture and the dim light that illuminated the place was only to disguise the shoddiness of the interior, rather than create any sense of ambience.

'Ooh, lawks,' said the bug-eyed woman, who had appeared again behind the bar opposite the entrance. 'Take a seat, ladies. My hips ain't what they once was.'

They obediently sat and mumbled a request for some water, Helga unintentionally adding "not poison". The woman obliged, and all was silent.

'Ro,' Helga whispered, a short time later, 'where the hell are we?'

Rowena whispered back, 'I think it's an alehouse.' She briefly surveyed the room again, and added, 'Note the lingering stench of poverty and violence.'

'Oh Lordy. Can we go, please?'

'Um…' _Anything you can do, I can do much, much better! _'Well, we'll give it a couple more minutes, shall we? This could be a grand opportunity in disguise.' She briefly studied the room, examining each dark nook and dirty crevice for anyone who looked to be even vaguely affiliated with the teaching profession. She found none. What she did find was several sleeping women and, beside, under or on top of them, several sleeping men. One of was wearing dungarees. Very…small ones, at that.

'Ro?' said Helga, nervously.

'Let's get the hell out, shall we?'

'Yes!' In perfect unison they slid out of their seats and shuffled towards the door. Sweet, odourless daylight beckoned for a few precious seconds until—

'Ooh, Satan's nipple clamps,' said a raw female voice.

Still in terrified unison, Rowena and Helga turned to the speaker. She was tall and rake-like, with heavy eyes and dressed in a way that few people would permit in civilised society.

'What – pardon?' said Rowena.

The women-who-wore-not-very-much said, 'Surprised you two haven't been burnt at the stake three times over.'

She blinked. She could almost feel the words flying over her head. 'Pardon?'

'Bad enough being witches, but when you mount the broomstick with the other leg as well people really start to get angry. Do you eat lentils?'

'Er…what?'

'Never mind, no one will find out if you don't tell them.'

'Er…yes.'

'Quiet day, isn't it?'

'Er…possibly.'

'Haven't had a customer in all morning, I thought I could get a bit of extra shut-eye. Can I get you anything?'

'Er…no thanks.'

'Suit yourself. How about your little friend?'

Rowena turned to Helga, who managed to shut her eyes and whisper, 'Clothes.'

'That's a no as well is it?' She rubbed her heavily made-up eyes, seemingly annoyed. 'Fine, fine; you should have mentioned that to Mrs Winthrop though, looks like I got out of bed for nothing.'

'Er…sorry,' said Rowena, because real words had eluded her about thirty seconds ago.

'It's all right; just give me a shout if you want anything. Ooh, Merlin's handcuffs, here are some _gentlemen!_' She barged past a very confused Helga and Rowena to greet a gang of perhaps five or six bearded men, calling out, 'Send in the re-enforcements, Mrs Winthrop!' as she did. Rowena and Helga twitched slightly.

After the "gentlemen" had taken their seats by the bar, attended to by about eight women of all varieties, Helga managed to speak.

'She was a very odd…waitress.'

'Yeah.'

'What did she say about Merlin, Ro?'

'Erm…sounded like handcuffs, Helly.'

'What did she mean by that, then?'

Rowena twitched again. 'No idea, Helly.'

'And…and…what did she mean about…mounting brooms, Ro?'

'Not a clue, Helly.'

'And lentils?'

Honestly this time, Rowena replied: 'I have not got one solitary idea, Helly.'

'Oh.' They remained stationary for a minute or so, both too terrified and fascinated to make a bolt for the exit. After a while, Helga said, 'Ro, there appears to be a scene of copulation occurring in the corner, over there. Obviously it doesn't really concern me, but I feel I should either run away or intervene before they injure themselves.'

'I—I think we should run away, Helly.'

'What's that man—?'

'Quick, Helly!' They scurried out of the door, and kept on scurrying until they were safely out of hearing distance from the strange, unusual and frankly disturbing place.

Helga shook her head disbelievingly. 'Was that an _alehouse_, Ro? Is that what alehouses are like?'

'It was indecent, that's what it was!'

'Alehouses are disgusting!'

'I don't think it was an alehouse, Helly! It was a _brothel_! In our quaint little village! I feel like I should write a letter or lead a crusade or—'

'What's a brothel?'

After a slightly embarrassed pause, Rowena told her.

'Why?'

After another embarrassed pause, Rowena told her.

'But—?'

Before she could even ask, Rowena told her.

'…Eugh.'

* * *

The adventures of the day weren't referenced again until the following morning, when Rowena woke to find a man stood at the foot of her bed, leafing through her books.

'Bastard,' she said.

'Pardon?' said Salazar.

'Word association.' Realising the significance of what he was doing and where he was doing it, she demanded, 'Can I help you at all?'

He didn't reply, other than to give her a slow amused look then resume reading her things. Self-consciously remembering the state she usually woke up in, she patted down her hair and adjusted her nightdress, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and checked for sudden skin flare-ups. All seemed well.

Brimming with confidence, she demanded, 'Slytherin, there's a word for people who invite themselves into a women's bedrooms in the morning.'

'What's that?'

'Creepy…Slytherin man,' she improvised, weakly.

'Ooh. Sharp.'

'Get lost.'

Salazar set the book down and sat on the edge of her bed, which she accordingly shuffled further up.

'Alright,' he said, 'now tell me the word for someone who wanders into a brothel at ten o'clock on a lovely summer morning, Ravenclaw.'

'Lost?' she suggested, weakly.

'A likely story.'

'Please, please, please don't take your thought train any further down that track.'

'What track would that be?' he asked, innocently.

'The track that leads to the town of Sexual Metaphor; population: Slytherin.'

He grinned, apparently pleased with himself. Rowena rolled her eyes and pulled her bed sheets up further, before demanding, 'What do you want?'

'The pleasure of your company, of course…ha, no. You have a letter.'

Rowena waited patiently for him to present her with this miracle of communication, and frowned as he did nothing of the sort; remaining, as he did, sat on her bed.

'Well?' she demanded, eventually.

He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a disturbing memory. 'I didn't really fancy touching it, to be honest.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Really, Slytherin – so disgusted by the thought of anyone trying to correspond with me that you couldn't even stand to touch a letter?'

'That,' he agreed, 'and the fact that it was attached to a clearly deceased owl in the throes of rigor mortis.'

Rowena winced. 'Oh.'

'How a dead owl managed to fly through an open window and settle on the nearest table, I'm honestly without a clue.'

Rowena continued to wince. 'She probably threw it.'

'"She"?'

'Er…did the letter contain only the words "to Rowena" and a liberal amount of saliva?'

'I didn't examine it that closely, to be honest,' he said, eyebrows rising.

'Did it smell strongly of home-made liquor?'

'Yes.'

'Ah.' She rubbed her eyes in annoyance. 'Yes, that'll be Granny Agnes.'

'Oh,' he said, straightening up in interest, 'the insane one?'

'Yes,' she mumbled, reluctantly.

'The one who collects stuffed herons?'

'Yes…'

'And hides them in the high boughs of trees?'

'Yes…'

'And licks them?'

_'Yes_,' she snapped, annoyed that so much of her grandmother's personal life was in circulation amongst her enemies. 'Yes, that Granny Agnes.' She sniffed and added, 'We can't help who we're related to.'

Salazar was, to his credit, silent for a moment or two. Then he thoughtfully said, 'You've got that right,' and stood up to leave. Pausing by the door, he added, 'By the way, your nightdress is slightly transparent,' and left.

Rowena sunk back under her blankets and blasphemed.


	6. Chapter 6: Sticky Green Death

**Chapter Six: Sticky Green Death**

Three years ago—

'I hate him,' said Rowena; fifteen years old and therefore brimming with vanity, hormones and the utter, unwavering conviction that she was always right. 'I mean, I actually hate him.'

'Sexual tension,' said Henrietta Bagman, knowledgably.

'Hatred,' said Rowena.

'Same thing,' said Henrietta.

Rowena didn't like Henrietta. She had a certain…aura about her. As if she was always staring at you voyeuristically, but looking down her nose to do so. Besides which, her father was a doctor. This lead Henrietta to consider herself the number one authority on matters of a sexual nature, and therefore not the easiest person to talk to.

'No,' said Rowena, levelly, 'I think there's a marked difference between wanting to throttle someone and wanting to jump their bones.'

'You can do both at the same time,' said Henrietta, folding her legs primly and leaning over her homework, 'some people enjoy it.'

Rowena stared at the top of her curly, mousy head. 'What…?'

'It's true,' she said, without looking up.

Rowena stared at her a while longer, before leaning back against the tree trunk and deciding not to pursue the subject. But under her breath, in a muted effort to win the last word, she mumbled, 'Never.'

'It's true.'

'What the hell does your dad talk to you about, Henry?'

'I know these things,' she insisted.

'All _my _dad ever taught me was how to plant carrots.'

'Yes, but that's a coded phallic symbol in itself. Besides, _your _father died.'

And that was another thing about Henrietta. Yes, of course her dad had died. Everybody knew as much. But no one else would dream of mentioning it so casually.

A few deep breaths and mental executions later, Rowena mumbled, 'Yeah, well…' which wasn't much of a concluding argument, but made her feel a lot better all the same. She focussed on her essay.

In the left margin, during an idle moment, she scrawled the words, _Damn you, Helga Hufflepuff. Do you realise how awful it is trying to work with Henrietta? She's entertaining sick fancies about me shagging Slytherin, do you know that? I swear to God, if you weren't Sick and Dying right now I'd rip your eyes out._

The words shone for a moment, the wet ink gleaming in the sunshine, before dissolving into the paper before her very eyes. She awaited a response for a minute or so but, receiving none, dutifully continued with her homework, ignoring the worried feeling bubbling inside her.

The summer months had signalled another outbreak of fever; although no one was sure of its name or origins, the teachers had begun to refer to sick students as _S/D_. These initials, too, were a mystery, but it had come to be agreed amongst the pupils that it stood for Sick and Dying, which was very funny up until the moment your best friend caught it.

And so, with only twenty or so pupils left in school, Rowena had been forced into a temporary alliance with Henrietta Bagman: snob, teacher's pet, and writer of pornographic novelettes. In her later years, Rowena would cringe to recall that _this _was the girl she'd learned the Facts of Life from, in all their anatomically correct glory.

'You know, he's not all that bad,' she said, while Rowena glared expectantly at her margin for a response from Helga to arrive.

'Who's not?'

'Slytherin.'

Rowena scoffed and met her eyes. 'Yes, he is. He's a complete tit-witch no more deserving of life than the humble house fly, and with about as much charisma. I'd like to bury him neck-deep in sand and hit his face repeatedly with a shovel, before making him eat his own severed manhood.' "Manhood" was another word she'd learnt from Henrietta. Before this, she'd been in the habit of calling them "nadgers" which wasn't, apparently, very mature of her.

'Sexual tension,' said Henrietta, again.

'It is _not _sexual tension!'

…To which Henrietta replied the five most annoying words in the English language: 'Yeah, alright. Whatever you say.'

Rowena stabbed the ground with her pencil. Before Henrietta had the opportunity to inform her that this was, like everything else she ever said or did, a phallic symbol of some kind, Rowena plunged on: 'Well, he's S/D now, isn't he? So it's all irrelevant. If I'm lucky, he might die a torturous death.'

'Don't say that,' said Henrietta, harshly – whereas Helga would have told her not to get her hopes up. Helga would have known she was (sort-of) joking. 'That's a terrible thing to say.'

Rowena said, 'Ugh.'

'And have you noticed that most of the S/Ds are boys, Rowena?'

'Yeah? So?'

Very solemnly, Henrietta told her: 'So our wombs will remain barren and our pleasure unfulfilled.'

'I'm fifteen years old!' Rowena replied, slightly hysterically. 'My pleasure isn't even invited to the party! And I'm not plagued by unresolved sexual tension! And – and I do not have an Electra complex or a fascination with the phallus or repressed homosexual desire – I am _fifteen_!'

In the same solemn tone, she said, 'You're never too young to have an Electra complex, Rowena.'

'You have an Electra complex,' Rowena snapped, slightly immaturely as she didn't even know what this was, 'and it's a homosexual one at that!'

'Don't be silly.'

'Ugh! You're a _crap _Helga, do you know that? Crap!'

Henrietta's expression suddenly softened. She lowered her quill and leaned towards Rowena intently, causing Rowena to accordingly lean away. 'Is that what this is about?' she asked softly. 'Are you upset that Helga's dying?'

'She's not dying!'

'She's S/D, Rowena; you've said so yourself.'

'Well she's – she's – Jesus Christ, Henrietta, what _are _you?'

Henrietta shrugged.

'She's S, that's all. No D.' She tactfully pushed Henrietta's looming pitiful expression away, and resumed work on her essay. 'She wouldn't die on me. We made a deal.'

'I see,' said Henrietta, voice softening more by the second. Rowena ignored her.

She searched her margin for a response from Helga, but none had arrived. She couldn't send her an owl, because owls were unhealthy. She could always—

'Bronwyn!'

—_shoot me_.

She looked up in time to see Elvina Hart prancing over the horizon, skipping gaily toward them in a manner that almost merited slow motion and a soundtrack of strings and woodwind. She even had the wind blowing freely through her hair, for Christ's sake.

'Hello, Elvina,' Rowena mumbled, as she arrived at the willow tree, eclipsing the sunlight with her massive head.

'Hello Elvina,' Henrietta chorused, eagerly. Elvina ignored her.

'Bronwyn, where's your little yellowy friend?'

'She's S…S,' Rowena replied, unable to bring herself to pronounce the D.

'Oh, that's a shame.' She swished her hair, for the sheer hell of it. 'It's depressing, isn't it, all these people dying?'

'Not dying,' said Rowena, quickly, 'just sickly.'

'Mm? Really? Oh, that's lovely. I never get sick.'

'Good for you,' Rowena mumbled.

'Or fat.'

'Terrific.'

'Or spotty.'

'Well done.'

'Or dumped.'

'Did you want something?' Rowena demanded.

'Mm? Oh…' She shrugged, and waved her hands absently. 'I don't think so. It's so boring, having only you girls to talk to.'

'Sorry.'

'Oh, don't apologise to _me_. Apologise to yourself.' She smiled with absolute sincerity. Rowena stared at her in disbelief. That was the thing about Elvina: she always, always meant it.

'Dear me,' Rowena mumbled, barely audibly, 'you're both crap Helgas.' She glanced down at her work, and was elated to see Helga's response shining in her margin:

_Oh, well that's a fine way to talk to a Sick and Dying child, isn't it? I'll never get better with that sort of attitude._

_Henrietta can be effectively dealt with using either the sharp end of a sweeping brush or an actual representation of the male anatomy, which would no doubt shock her into silence for the rest of her natural life. However, if you could get your hands on an actual representation of the male anatomy (oo-er) you wouldn't have to put up with her anyway._

_If you ever make sexy shenanigans with any member of the Slytherin clan I will be forced to die immediately as punishment; also because a world of Slytherin-Ravenclaw babies is not a world in which I wish to live. They could not co-exist with the future Gryffindor-Hufflepuff babies of the world._

_And being Sick and Dying isn't all that bad, because the hospital wing's comfier than I've previously been lead to believe, and because THE Godric Gryffindor happens to be laying three beds down and I'VE ACTUALLY SPOKEN TO HIM. Unfortunately I threw up on him thirty seconds later, so all in all it's been a mixed day – him having seen the contents of my stomach, and all._

_Think I'm getting better. Probably not going to die in immediate future. Are you getting my homework for me? Because if I fail this year because of you I'm going to rub your face with an onion._

_- Helga._

Rowena grinned. Perfect Helga.

In a distinctly heterosexual sense.

* * *

Back in the here and now, Rowena balanced upon a shaky stool and, stretching her upper body as far as biology would allow, pushed a pear-shaped potion bottle towards the back of a shelf. It was, she told herself, a Good Job Well Done. She was really Getting the Hang of This Sort of Thing.

She lined up the other potion bottles with the kind of enthusiasm that stems from the joy of the menial, then hopped down from the stool and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

'There!' she beamed, proudly. 'I've put myself to great use.'

'Uh-huh,' said Helga vaguely, having spent the past half an hour arranging desks, chairs and everything else Rowena considered "grunt work", and not feeling terribly happy about it. 'Marvellously done, Ro,' she said, sarcastically.

Rowena decided to ignore her tone, and instead nodded. 'Yep. I mean, it took some effort – couple of rough minutes there, up on that stool – but my devotion to task was unwavering, and I managed to pull through.'

'Well done.'

'And now I can look back on my achievements with pride and an overall feeling of catharsis.'

'Do shut up.'

Rowena continued to beam out of amiable spite. It was hardly her fault that whenever she attempted to partake in any physically exertive activity her lungs seemed to shrink and her throat closed up. But whenever she reminded Helga of this, the blonde merely laughed at the "physically exertive" bit, and somehow managed to cover the phrase "dying a virgin" with one massive cough.

'Well, that's one room done,' Rowena announced, admiring the layout of the classroom, 'just another three hundred and forty-seven to go.'

'We're not going to need that many, are we?' Helga half-asked, half-pleaded. 'Ro, my arms hurt! We don't have that many _chairs_…'

Rowena grinned. 'Calm down, Hel. We won't even have that many students.'

'Oh thank God. Godric promised he'd sort a couple of rooms out, didn't he?' Helga hinted, hopefully. Perhaps not simply out of a reluctance to undertake anymore manual labour, but also the shining hope that she'd glimpse a certain sweaty Gryffindor balancing a chair on his biceps. That, Rowena considered, would probably confirm the reason for Helga's very existence.

'Yes, he did. But I think he's visiting the village instead.'

Helga winced. 'What for?'

'Advertising, I imagine. Not that our attempt was anything short of spectacular, of course.'

'Of course,' Helga dutifully agreed, as they vacated the room and began a leisurely stroll along the fourth floor corridor. The castle seemed to have an infinite number of floors; she tended to lose count after the fifth. Finding your way around Hogwarts was more a matter of luck and willpower than any level of navigational prowess. 'What about Slytherin? Think he'll be of any use?'

They wandered into the large room at the end of the corridor which, despite not looking very much like one, would one day go on to become a well-stocked library. For now, the room was bare save for a group of lazily assembled book shelves, each containing no more than three books, and at least one of which consisted of pornographic doodles. Rowena shrugged and leaned lazily against a shelf.

'No idea. Maybe. Probably not. No. No,' she repeated, shaking her head, 'I don't honestly think he'll be in any way useful, unless we ritualistically drain his blood and offer his bones to a primitive deity of good fortune, but even then I think he'd be rejected on account of his oozing black plasma of sticky-green death.'

Helga nodded. 'Yeah. That's exactly what I thought.'

'Really?'

'No, you mental bitch.' She glanced around the room, reached the conclusion that Rowena had led them in there due a complete lack of work to be done rather than a determination to crack on with the task at hand, and leaned against the opposite bookshelf. She found herself wishing for chairs. 'Has he done anything particularly irritating recently?'

'Oh, you know, the usual…sneering, lurking, accusing me of having a penis, that sort of thing.' She sniffed. 'I hate men.'

'Really?'

'Yes. No,' she decided, after a moment, 'mainly I hate Slytherin, but the mood felt right for melodrama.' She sighed. 'Just humour me.'

'Oh,' said Helga obediently, 'OK. Me too, in that case. Except Godric.'

'Except Godric,' Rowena conceded; Godric was so generally inoffensive that it was difficult to harbour a grudge against him. You could enter a room to find him towering above your slaughtered family with a bloodied axe in his hand, and he'd only have to say, "Oh I do beg your pardon, I appear to have got a bit carried away with the homicidal mania and all that rot. I do hope you'll forgive me," and you probably would.

'Alright,' she decided, 'we can hypothetically hate all men except Godric.'

'And that boy from school,' said Helga, thoughtfully, 'the one you went out with.'

'Yes—'

'For about two days,' she added, under her breath.

Rowena gave her a scolding look. 'It was at least a week.' She opened a book and, upon seeing its contents, rapidly snapped it shut again. 'Anyway, he's the _only_ boy I ever went out with, and we didn't even get to kissing. I only liked him in the first place because he had double-jointed kneecaps and I was easily impressed.'

Unfortunately, Salazar Slytherin's reputation as a "snakey bastard" was based primarily upon his ability to manifest very silently, and at the worst possible time. He cleared his throat noisily.

'Holy god!' Rowena screeched, automatically throwing a book at him.

Salazar grinned. 'I can roll my tongue in two directions, does that mean I'm in with a chance?'

'You!' said Rowena, not exactly at her mental peak. Helga winced on her behalf. 'You,' she said again, as calmly as possible. She cleared her throat. 'You, er...weren't stood out there very long, were you?'

'Oh my,' he said, admiringly, 'what a fascinating shade of crimson.'

'Shut up!'

'I have a friend who can belch the alphabet. Is that impressive enough for you?'

_Dammit dammit dammit! _'Shut up,' she said, pointing a warning finger, 'or I swear to wizard god I will gut you like a fish!'

Salazar carried on grinning. 'OK,' he said, 'I'll stop.'

'Good!' She crossed her arms, and waited for some of her dignity to come back.

'Er...Ro?' said Helga, delicately. 'He won't.'

Slytherin chuckled. 'She's right. I won't.'

Rowena sighed.

'When you finally get your first kiss,' he said, leaning comfortably against the door frame, 'I hope there's rainbows. Really.' He smiled. 'Fireworks, angels, the whole kiboodle.'

'I hate you.'

'And I hope it's by a waterfall,' he continued, with a dreamy sigh. 'In the summer.'

'I hate you.'

'While kittens purr and babies sing...I mean, if the world's going to end, it might as well go down in style.'

Rowena said something that sounded like "duck off", and threw another book at him. 'And have you done any work today?' she demanded, desperate for a change in subject.

Slytherin scoffed at the suggestion. 'My work here is done, Ravenclaw. I'm the one funding this misadventure.'

'We're _all_ funding it!' she yelled, which wasn't strictly true. So she quickly changed tact, and went with: 'We wouldn't have to do as much work if you hadn't sent Elvina packing.'

'That was a group decision,' he reminded her, while Helga remained diplomatically silent.

'Yes, forced upon us by _you!_ We could have just reached a compromise, but—'

'Feel free to retrieve her,' he said, mockingly, 'since you loved her companionship so much.'

'That's – that's not the point!'

'We're better off with just the four of us, in any case. It has certain advantages.'

'Like what?'

He shrugged. 'We could always form a barbershop quartet?'

To her eternal disgust, she actually _snorted_. She clamped a hand over her mouth to silence the noise, damning everyone within a five mile radius. Slytherin looked incredibly pleased with himself.

'Besides,' he continued, stretching out a cramp in his arm, 'my company's limitlessly preferable to hers. She's like a haemorrhoid with legs.'

She had to purse her lips again before insisting, 'No. Nothing's preferable to you.'

Salazar shrugged, with the vaguest of grins on his lips, and said, 'But at least _I've _managed to get a snog in my entire life.' He stalked away.

Rowena stared after him.

Helga took a few silent steps backwards.

Rowena blinked.

Helga hid behind a bookcase.

And Rowena screamed, '_I HATE HIS HEAD!_'


	7. Chapter 7:Revenge of the Sexual Metaphor

**Chapter Seven: Revenge of the Sexual Metaphor**

The following week passed slowly with very little incidence; most of the time was spent discovering new rooms, some of which - to Rowena's seething annoyance - changed on a regular basis. So far, she'd encountered a room that was a kitchen on Tuesday and a library on Wednesday, one that grew smaller the further she walked into it and one with a vanishing floor.

The staircases were a problem, too. One day they'd changed direction as she ascended the final step, taking her over to Godric's tower where she'd awaited assistance with some mild embarrassment, not quite knowing how to get back downstairs.

'The fourth floor,' Helga declared, 'was designed by Satan and constructed by his evil little wizards.' She took a seat by Rowena in what would one day be the school library. Over the week, the place had accumulated a couple of extra shelves of second-hand books that Salazar had "just picked up on the cheap", though Rowena didn't dare think where.

'Vanishing bathroom?' Rowena ventured. Helga nodded grimly.

Their task had been to make a more detailed map of the school by charting where each room was, though this wasn't entirely easy when a selection of the aforementioned rooms repeatedly attempted to eat them.

Rowena said, 'I'm beginning to understand why they sold this place so cheaply. I'm sure it'll all be worth it in the end, though.'

Salazar's scowl appeared from behind a bookcase. He shook his head slowly and disappeared again.

'I appreciate your optimism,' Rowena muttered.

He reappeared and took a seat opposite Helga. 'Ravenclaw, your cheerful demeanour is intensely physically painful.'

'That's not all that's painful.'

'But why are we even _bothering?_'

'Because, Hoofed One, we'd all hate you to fall down an uncharted pit.'

'Huh.' He made a show of ignoring her, and instead began to scan through the pages of a dusty volume taken from the bookcase. 'Oh would you look at that, an entire chapter on carnivorous frogs.'

Rowena threw him a withering look, but felt uneasy all the same. The problem with Slytherins - - one of many - was that they just couldn't be trusted. You tell them your secret phobia and they taunt you with frog jokes for the rest of your life.

Their harmless banter was interrupted by Godric's trademark entrance. The one that meant Rowena had to go around fixing all the door handles he'd unintentionally shattered. The poor boy couldn't help it; his biceps had biceps.

'Ah, here he is,' said Salazar, who seemed to be feeling more sour than usual, 'man of the hour. He'll save us from the vanishing toilet.'

Godric ignored him and bowed stiffly to Rowena and Helga, causing Helga to redden and Rowena to fight the urge to thrash him violently about the face.

Salazar said, 'Yo, Godders. How's it hanging?'

Godric regarded him with annoyance and mumbled, 'It's hanging...well. I've completed a map of the fifth floor, Miss Ravenclaw, and I'm happy to report that all is as it should be.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, giving Slytherin a scolding look, 'thanks, Godric. Please never call me Miss Ravenclaw again as long as you live.'

'Er...yes. Ha ha.'

Then there came the awkward silence. Oh, the awkward silence! Rowena made a mental note never to enter another business plan with two people she had so little in common with. Variety of traits and abilities? Ha.

Finally, Helga asked, 'Do we, er, have any students yet?'

'Not...not as yet, no,' Rowena confessed, not allowing herself to feel overly guilty; it was, she reminded herself, their responsibility as much as hers. 'Not many teachers, either. But there's still plenty of time before term starts in September.'

Godric asked, 'Is there any chance we can wait until next year, Miss - Rowena?'

'Er, no. Well, I don't think so. The supplies and furniture' - here she shot a meaningful glance at Salazar, who had somehow accumulated most of it - 'well, that cost us a bit, frankly. So it would be useful if we opened as soon as possible to get some income flowing. Of course, we'll only be able to allow the, er...wealthier students in at first, so we can afford to keep teachers and such.'

She already knew that her statement would inspire a reply from Salazar, so she wasn't entirely surprised when he said, 'Good thing, really. Keep the riff-raff out.'

'So,' she continued, slightly louder to ignore him, 'we'll need to comb the local villages for anyone who's interested in either teaching or becoming a pupil. There's a little village around the corner that's - er - quite nice.'

'A little village?' Salazar echoed. 'You're not going to find anyone wealthy in a little village. Case in point: didn't you live in a little village, Hufflepuff?'

'But I can't think of any way we're going to meet them,' Rowena continued, speaking louder still.

'You did too, didn't you Ravenclaw?'

'Slytherin-'

'Until your parents killed themselves.'

Helga gasped, then shrieked, 'Rowena, get _off _him!' as she leapt from her chair and lunged at a very surprised Salazar, sending him hurtling backwards and dragging a bookshelf to the ground.

She didn't need a wand...she was going to kill that inbred bastard with her bare hands...

After about thirty seconds of kicking, strangling and squirming, she was finally dragged from him by Godric, though this wasn't easily done. She continued pulling his hair until the very last moment, and after that she just kicked out wildly.

As delicately as possible, Godric transported her back to the table, accompanied by an understandably worried Helga. Once she'd finally calmed down, Slytherin managed to struggle to his feet. He examined his neck gingerly.

After a stunned pause, he said, _'Ouch_. That bloody hurt!'

Rowena took a deep, unsteady breath. 'You don't,' she began, 'you just don't say...you just _don't_-'

'Alright,' he said, taking a step away from her, though she was hardly able to pounce again as Godric's steel grip was on her shoulders. 'Alright, calm down.'

'You should _never_-'

'Alright! I'm _sorry_.' At least he had the decency to make it sound half-genuine.

Rowena's ruffled feathers settled slightly. 'Well, good. I'm OK, Godric,' she added, his hands preventing her from shrugging, 'you can let go.' She tried to laugh casually as proof, but the giggle she produced sounded slightly maniacal. Above her head, Godric looked to Helga for confirmation. She nodded, and Rowena felt him release her arms. Good Lord that boy was strong when he wanted to be. No wonder doors flung open when he pushed them; they had no other choice...

She took a deep breath and settled. 'Right,' she said, after a moment of silence, speaking as if nothing had happened. This seemed the right way to go about things. 'Would anyone like to raise any more burning issues?'

Salazar skulked around the remaining bookcase.

Eventually, Godric spoke. The tone of his voice suggested Rowena had put the fear of Ravenclaw in him. 'Well, I do have something, but I'm not sure this is the best time to, er...'

'Do share,' Rowena insisted.

'Well, I thought that since we would all be working together for so long and, er, since I have my own already...and what with one thing' - here his eyes drifted towards the direction of the mysterious forest, then snapped back again - 'and another...well, I have gifts.'

'Ah?' said Rowena and Helga together; remembering the typical Gryffindor "gift" ran along the lines of a Vow of Eternal Loyalty or My Unending Protection, neither of which could be exchanged for financial alternatives.

He reached over his shoulder for the bag that habitually hung there, and withdrew three long, impressive swords.

'Er,' said Rowena, as they clanged against the table, 'how...thoughtful...'

"Thoughtful" wasn't the word, but "odd" was. "Disturbing" was another. The one Salazar carefully picked up - correctly assuming it was his - was a short piece of metal set into what appeared to be a green turd, which seemed to be the handle. Salazar looked at it briefly, gave Godric an expression that said "You're not worthy of my insults" and placed it atop the remaining bookshelf without a second glance.

Rowena regarded hers closely, smiling and nodding to keep Godric happy. It was, she had to admit, a lot better than Salazar's when it came to appearance; the blade was long and elegant but looked like it might blunt if asked to cut paper - clearly, Godric held certain views on the subject of ladies and artillery. The handle was, thoughtfully enough, the blue and bronze colours of the Ravenclaw crest. Rowena suspected she could detach it using only the power of her mind.

Helga's sword was probably the best of the three, though it was still clearly meant for having rather than using. Like Rowena's, the blade was long and elegant; unlike Rowena's, it was yellow and black. She burbled her thanks and salivated.

With a disgusted expression on his face, Salazar said, 'How lovely. I think chocolates and flowers are more common, though.'

Helga's eye twitched.

'Also,' he added, 'I've got one.'

'A hideous wasting disease?' Rowena suggested hopefully.

'No.'

'Terrible hair?'

'No.'

'Man-boobs?'

'Certainly not.'

'You're sure it's not a hideous wasting disease-?'

'An _idea_, Ravenclaw. I have an _idea_. You know what they are, I assume? You might have read about them-'

'What's your idea?' Helga demanded, as Godric sidled closer to Rowena lest she re-launch her attack.

'Chill your knickers, Hufflepuff. I have an idea of an ingenious and, dare I say, brilliant nature that will enable us to meet, greet and beat whomever we please.'

Rowena gave him her best scowl.

'That's a _part-ay_,' he explained, 'in laymen's terms.'

'A party?'

'A _part-ay_,' he corrected her, 'there's a large difference. Less wine and cheeses; more ale and dancing.'

'A party?' Rowena said again, mind awash with the possibilities.

'A _part-ay_-'

'The pronunciation doesn't make any difference!'

Salazar raised his eyebrows. 'Clearly you've never attended a part-ay.'

'You're not going to get them drunk and con them into agreeing, are you?' she demanded, through narrowed eyes.

'Of course not! I haven't done that since second year. Don't you think it's worth considering?' he asked, glancing at each of them. 'We could...see how the wealthy people react in...er, social situations, and get to know these wealthy humans a lot better. And invite them round for interviews at a later date. Or if they enjoy our company,' he went on desperately, privately wondering how anyone would enjoy the company of Godric and Helga, especially when they were within thirty metres of each other, 'if they enjoy our company, they might consider sending their darling wealthy children to our school for teaching. Did I mention the wealthy part?'

'Thrice,' said Helga, pensively.

Salazar didn't answer, instead looking eagerly around the room. Rowena considered the idea: though clearly nothing more than an excuse for Slytherin to let his hair down and wantonly spend large amounts of school money, the fiend had raised some very interesting points. Dammit all to hell and back, it was probably a good idea.

Turning her back on him, as if this might exclude him from the conversation, she asked, 'What do you think, Godric?'

Godric mumbled, 'Average.'

'Helga?'

'Decent.'

'Alright. That's a yes, then?'

There came a sullen mumble of, 'Go on then, I suppose. It can't hurt.'

'Right. Eugh.' She turned to Slytherin, who adopted a smug expression in advance, and said, 'Fine. We might as well.'

The self-satisfied expression only increased Rowena's desire to physically beat him once more. The lofty wave of his left hand as he wallowed in smug victory didn't help matters. Rowena somehow managed to suppress this violent urge, and instead turned back to Helga and Godric.

'You two,' she said suddenly, as inspiration struck, 'why don't you, er, go to this village and invite a few people over? Together? _Now?'_

After only the slightest of embarrassed pauses, they both obediently shuffled out of the room, though in Godric's case this was with some hesitation. As they left, she heard him whisper, 'Are you sure we should leave them in a room together with swords? She could kill him!'

As the door closed behind them, she heard Helga answer, 'Who cares?'

_Ah yes,_ said the little voice of Rowena's conscience, _just call me Doctor Love. Or better still, another name that's slightly less ridiculous._

..._And now I'm alone with Slytherin, and damn._

'How very cunning,' said Salazar, through one of those inexplicable and unnecessary grins.

Rowena, still furious at him, determinedly blocked out that screeching noise he liked to call a voice and set about mending the bookshelf. '_Repairo_,' she mumbled, pointing her wand in its general direction. The shelf lazily reconstructed itself and the books filed back into place.

He smirked as she turned around, which Rowena found not only suspicious but highly annoying. He said, 'You know what your problem is, Ravenclaw?'

'The voices?' she replied, mildly.

'You take everything too seriously.'

'Amazing. How do you get into my mind so accurately? That's what I'd like to know-'

'Why do you hate me so much?'

'Oh, I wonder!'

He grinned. 'I'm sensing a lot of tension between us.'

'I could kill you if you wanted,' she snapped, 'that'd solve all our problems and then some-'

'Or,' he said, with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows, 'we could just _do it_, and get it over with...'

* * *

'I, er, wonder how they're getting on?' Helga asked, walking alongside Godric towards the village.

'Not too well, I suspect,' said Godric, with a slight grin at the thought.

'Maybe it wasn't the best idea to give them both sharp, pointy objects.'

'Yes, on reflection it probably wasn't the greatest of schemes.'

They both let out the same short, awkward, embarrassed laugh and walked in silence for a further minute. During this time, Helga thought:

_Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph what the Hell am I doing? I should say something. I really need to say something. What am I going to say? I can't think of anything interesting!_

_Okay calm, Helly, what would Ro's advice be? Hm... "Show him your knickers and do a sultry little dance against a tree trunk."_

_Dammit, that's her advice for everything. Oh, dear God, why can't I speed up my thinking process? So much quiet time is passing; he's bound to notice I haven't said anything soon!_

_Let's think, she would have said... "Just talk about, I don't know, something you have in common. Or something that applies to both of you. Then flash your knickers and do a sultry little dance against a silver birch; it never fails."_

_Right, something we have in common. That would be...er...well, we both have hands. Oh, great idea, Helga. "So, how are your hands today? Manly and rough, I see, very nice." Oh, God of Smoothness._

_Oh, God! I know we have lots of things in common; I made a list of them once! It's all slipping away like water through a...a...oh God I've forgotten that as well! Watering can? DON'T PANIC!_

_Something that applies to us both, well that would be...well, that could be anything from the surrounding environment, if I remember correctly...So let's see..._

She would never forgive herself for saying what she did next.

She said: 'Nice weather we're having, isn't it?'

* * *

Rowena blinked heavily, unable to believe her own ears. 'Let's do _what?_'

'Let's do it,' he repeated shamelessly. Then he grinned, and clarified, 'Let's duel. I don't know what _you _thought I was talking about...'

'Oh, Gods above!' She waved her sword threateningly under his nose and hissed, 'You know you're doing that!'

'I know,' he smirked, once safely out of striking distance, 'I'm afraid I just can't fight my dirty tendencies. And it's so much fun watching you squirm.'

'Wasn't squirming,' she mumbled sulkily. Then, looking up fiercely, she growled, 'It's you and your...your sexual metaphors all the time! Give it a rest!'

'Come on,' he pleaded, ignoring her rather weak choice of lexis and grabbing his turd-like sword from the bookshelf, 'just you and me and a couple of cheap swords. You know how to duel, I assume?'

Rowena didn't answer for a second or so. She did, actually; she'd learnt the basic actions and positions from her brother in her youth, which - considering the Ministry's views on women - could land both of them in severe trouble.

However, since it seemed highly unlikely that Salazar was about to turn her over to the authorities, she nodded determinedly. Either way, she could poke and swing very well.

Catching the look in her eye, Salazar added, 'It's just for fun, mind you...we're not actually going to be hitting each other.'

'What's the matter?' she asked, deciding a last minute undermining of his masculinity was her only chance of victory, 'Scared of getting cut to ribbons by a girl?'

'You couldn't if you tried,' he promised, through a grin.

_Of course I can't; I am literally going to die. _'Well, we'll see.'

Rowena seized her sword by the bumpy handle and immediately felt a cold veil of nervous sweat appear on her palms, making the instrument suddenly very difficult to grip. They moved into a clear space away from the shelves and stood about a metre apart. Salazar raised the sword so that it was vertical down the middle of his face. Rowena attempted to copy his action but found, to her private embarrassment, that she couldn't quite find the exact centre. She placed the edge lightly against the middle of her nose, but no matter how much she adjusted it, it always seemed too far to the left. This was cause for severe worry.

Of course, she reminded herself, this was only for fun. They weren't really going to hit each other...but...

What if she turned out to be completely pathetic at wielding a sword and ended up falling flat on her face within the first five seconds? Or, worse, what if he managed to defeat her with just one jab? She had a nasty habit of humiliating herself when it really mattered, and she didn't like that look in Salazar's eyes as he smiled at her knowingly...

'Ready, Ravenclaw?' he asked, lowering his sword very slightly. She did the same and nervously tugged at her dress in response. He regarded this with curiosity. 'What are you doing? Taking your clothes off?'

'Oh, in your dreams, Slytherin! In your sad and dirty dreams.'

'Of course!'

As if this had been some sort of cue, they both raised their swords simultaneously and brought them down with as much force as possible. They clanged in mid-air-

'Good God, who made these cruddy swords?' Salazar demanded, as they both visibly bent on impact. With a shrug, he carelessly tossed the faulty sword aside and withdrew his wand from his pocket instead. 'Wizard's duel?'

Rowena also threw her sword aside and took out her wand, correcting him, 'Wizards or witches duel, actually,' as she did so.

'Yeah, equal opportunities, whatever. Now be quiet and prepare to die.' He narrowed his eyes and raised his wand. Rowena did too, though this was a few seconds too late-

'_Expelliarmus!_' The force of the impact sent her flying through the air backwards before she landed heavily on the floor, winding herself.

'_A...accio!_' she wheezed, holding out her open hand. Her wand flew into her grip. Now, what was Salazar doing? She didn't have time to ponder; he could have been raising his wand at that moment...

She pointed in his direction without looking up, with a gasp of, '_Rictusempra!_'

She heard the familiar sound of sparks erupting from the tip of her wand, apparently hitting him full in the chest. He also flew backwards, though not quite as far as she had done.

She stood up before Salazar had the chance to and screamed the first spell that entered her head: '_Wingardium Leviosa!_'

Unsurprisingly, it didn't work.

'_Imperio!_' she shouted, pointing at him again. At first she thought her voice had echoed, but then she realised he'd actually shouted it at the same time.

Both spells reached their targets, and both were easily fought off.

Salazar shook his head quickly to clear it and pointed his wand. They shouted, '_Expecto Patronum!_' in unison, which Rowena found very annoying. It was like playing a more lethal version of Rock, Paper, Scissors with someone who said "Rock" as much as you did. The silvery eagle and snake collided and vanished, leaving no effect on each other whatsoever.

'_Lumos!_' said Rowena, which was the first thing to enter her head. This, of course, had no effect on him, as she was too far away from him to damage his eyeball, which was the worst she could do in any case.

Salazar briefly regarded this pathetic attempt before shouting, '_Impedimenta!_' At these words her legs froze, leaving her unable to do anything but flay her arms around madly before toppling over and screaming:

'_Alohomora!_' which was, again, the first thing to enter her head and, again, a mistake. It took a while for her to realise what effect - if any - the spell designed to open things had on him. Then her eyes travelled downwards as she came to the stunned realisation that his skivvies had fallen down to his ankles.

'Argh!' she yelped, quickly turning the other way and freeing herself of the impediment jinx. 'Argh! Er..._Expelliarmus!_ Anything!'

He flew weakly through the air before falling back to earth - now, she saw, with his trousers up where they belonged. He didn't seem embarrassed by the incident in the least.

She was about to suggest a draw and a strong draught of ale, but he interrupted by sitting up, swaying slightly out of light-headedness, and shouting, '_Alohomora!_'

'What-?'

The back of her pinafore untied itself and fell open. She screamed something that sounded worryingly like "Garfengabba!", and in doing so officially ended the fight.

Alright, so all the spell revealed was perhaps two thirds of her back, which was still covered by a white dress and most of her long hair, but...well, people still had standards.

'Salazar, you pig,' she mumbled, as she began work on re-threading the material.

He made himself comfortable by perching on the end of the table not far from Rowena, and reasoned, 'You did it to me, remember? I felt truly violated.'

'But I didn't think that would happen!'

'Ah, dear Ravenclaw. Why is it that every time you see me I have an offensive amount of my bottom half on show?'

'I'm beginning to think I'm cursed,' she mumbled in response, still struggling with her dress. 'Don't suppose you know any spells for re-lacing garments after particularly nasty duels, do you?'

'No. And it wasn't that nasty, anyway. You know I would have beaten you if I had to.' He raised his chin in an oh-so-superior manner and added, 'If it was a proper duel.'

'Slytherin, I consider any event in which I am forced to see your legs entirely "nasty", thank you very much. I won, anyway,' she added.

'No you didn't.'

'Fine, we drew.'

'Slytherins don't draw.'

'Fine, you won. Moody git.'

He smiled and replied, 'Ta,' apparently very pleased with himself.

Rowena rolled her eyes and felt suddenly very tempted to hit him with another disarming spell while he wasn't looking. But maybe later. 'I still can't fasten this bloody thing, it's your fault.'

'I'll help-'

'-Keep your hands off,' she said, taking a cautious step away.

For the briefest of moments, he was offended. Then he scoffed and returned to his normal self. 'Fine. I'm not desperate, Ravenclaw.'

Rowena sighed. 'Oh, do shut up Sally. It's the most amount of woman you're going to see in a while.'

He opened his mouth to object, but was interrupted by Helga, who half-ran into the room to announce: 'Ro, we've been to the village and dear Lord it's dull. But there is this place that might - what on earth are you doing?'

She caught sight of the situation and stared in shock. Godric audibly gasped, and Rowena wouldn't have been remotely surprised if he muttered "my word!" beneath his breath.

Salazar said, 'She's fraternising with the enemy,' to which Rowena hit him around the back of the head.

'Come on, Helly,' she smiled, grabbing her wrist and dragging her away, 'I'll explain later.'

All in all, she felt rather happy. She'd duelled with Salazar Slytherin, successfully violated his privacy and, no matter what he said about it, she thought she'd done rather well.

Back inside the library, Godric looked at Salazar questioningly. Salazar just smiled and declared, 'I can't help the effect I have on women.'


	8. Chapter 8: Potato Head

**Chapter 8: The Many Faces of Mr Potato Head**

Helga stared into Rowena's eyes, her face a picture of absolute joy with only a touch of wistful envy. Very slowly, she said, 'That was the best story I ever heard.'

Rowena laughed. 'It _was _rather amusing.'

'Bollocking badgers.'

'It wasn't that amusing.'

'I'm so _jealous!'_

'Jealous?' she repeated, with another laugh. 'Why would that be, Oh Bollocker of Badgers?'

Helga opened and closed her mouth several times disbelievingly, as if shocked Rowena couldn't see why it wouldn't be. 'You got Slytherin!' she said at last. 'You _got _him!'

'I didn't _get _him, Helly! He's still alive, you know.'

'Unfortunately,' Helga mumbled.

'I'm sure you don't mean that.'

'Want a bet?'

'My point is, all I did was hit him with a couple of basic spells to cause a few ouches—'

'—And pull his trousers down—'

'—Yes, yes, thanks for reminding me. It's not like I knocked him unconscious or anything.'

Helga lowered her voice conspiratorially, her expression suddenly sombre, and asked: 'Be honest, Ro…what do his legs look like?'

Rowena recoiled in horror at the thought.

'It's a very important question!' Helga insisted.

'I beg to differ! Why on Earth are you asking?'

Helga's giggles died down. She shrugged. 'I've no idea. I just think it's the kind of thing I should know, having hated him for so long. It's a privilege!' she insisted, as Rowena shook her head disbelievingly.

'I can't believe you're asking me this.'

'I can't believe I'm asking. Come on Ro, tell me!'

'I'm trying to block this experience from my memory, Helga! This could lead to severe trauma in later life, you know.'

'Like the frog thing?'

'Yes!'

'Well, that worked out fine! Ish.' She hit Rowena with a pillow. 'Come on. Share the pain.'

Rowena took a deep breath and relented. Speaking from memory of the cupboard incident, rather than the duel (when she had looked away rather quickly to avoid further humiliation), she said: 'Well, they're sort of…' She crinkled her nose. 'Sort of…'

'Spotty?'

'No!'

'Hairy?'

'Well, sort of—'

'Uncontrollably hairy?'

'Helga!'

'Like a pit bull terrier?'

'Helga!' Rowena screeched, launching the pillow at her face. 'It's bad enough you're making me relive this experience – I can't live a full and happy life with images of pit bull Salazar in my mind forever. Eurgh,' she added, after a few seconds of wildly inappropriate mental images.

Helga smiled and nodded in sympathetic understanding. 'So not as hairy as a small dog,' she pressed on, 'but still hairy.'

Rowena, realising there was no way of escaping the conversation now she had reluctantly climbed into it, nodded. 'Naturally hairy, I suppose. Look, can we…can we use another word instead of "hairy"? It's making me feel slightly ill.'

'Alright, so they're quite…er…' she glanced around the room in search of inspiration, before settling on: 'wardrobe. They're quite wardrobe, but not as wardrobe as a dog. Anything else?'

'What _like?_ Helga, I swear, if I die now with the forced memory of…them in my mind, I'm dragging you down to Hell with me.'

'Were they smelly?'

'Helga! I did _not _smell them!'

'Wiry?'

Rowena nodded reluctantly. 'Yes, I suppose they were pretty skinny. But that's no surprise; he's a pretty skinny person. Oh, and pale,' she added quickly, before Helga had time to interject with something disgusting, 'from what I could gather.'

Helga stared at the floor for a while, mentally piecing together the information and constructing Salazar's left leg in her minds eye. 'So,' she said eventually, 'you're saying he's hairy, malnourished and pasty?'

'Basically, yes.'

'With a possibility of odour?'

'Well…yes.'

'Eugh.'

'I told you,' said Rowena.

Helga didn't reply, but looked slightly ill and shuffled about Rowena's bed – the place they were both seated – uncomfortably. 'Now my depraved curiosity is sated and I may die in torment.'

'Indeed. Well, what happened to you?'

'When?'

'You know when! When you and darling Godric went for a stroll—'

'Oh, Lord,' Helga groaned, her shoulders slumping at the memory.

'Ah. That bad?'

'It was awful, Ro!' she cried dramatically, dropping immediately into a foetal position.

'Surely not _awful_—'

'Oh, you _would _say that! You weren't there! I mean, at first I thought "hooray, I'm walking with Godric Gryffindor—"'

'_The_ Godric Gryffindor!' Rowena chipped in.

'Yes, "I'm walking with _The _Godric Gryffindor, and we're making casual conversation, and—"'

'Casual conversation occurred? That's good.'

'No!'

'No?'

'No! Because the casual conversation soon ran out, and I had nothing left to say!'

Rowena could imagine the scene all to well. She winced. 'You didn't flash your knickers and do the dance, did you?'

'No.'

'Well then, it could have been worse.'

Helga hung her head despairingly and, her tone quiet and calm, mumbled, 'No, it really couldn't.'

'Did you lick his face like a dog?'

'No.'

'Did you tell him you wanted his red-headed babies?'

'Ro…'

'Yes?'

'I…I said…'

Rowena braced herself. 'Go on?'

'I said…I said…"Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"'

'Oh, Helly!'

Helga hugged a pillow tightly and shook her head. 'Why did I…?'

Rowena patted her friend's shoulder comfortingly. 'It still could have been worse,' she promised, in a desperate attempt to make her feel better. It didn't seem to be working.

'_How? How _could it have been worse?'

'You could have said…er…'

'Exactly!'

'Helga,' Rowena said, more sternly, deciding the "get-a-grip" method would have to suffice, 'it's not the end of the world.'

'Oh, I wish it was! I should have just dropped the dress and shimmied, at least I would have—'

'What was his reaction?'

She groaned again at the memory. 'He said, "Um, yes, very nice." Dammit all—'

'And then?'

'—Then he gave me a bit of a funny look, then he looked away very quickly and I spent the next few minutes gazing vacantly at the ground, wishing it would swallow me up, grind my bones to powder and sprinkle it into his stupid fuzzy head.'

'Oh, Helga—'

'Enough!' She raised one hand limply, in a feeble display of command. 'Enough of your sympathy, Miss Trouser-Dropper. If you don't quite mind –' she made her way towards the door, '– I'm going to find an empty room and scream in it.' The door swung shut after her with a clunk.

Very weakly, Rowena said, 'Have fun.'

* * *

Rowena balanced atop a shaky wooden ladder and struggled to add the last ribbon (of many) to the ceiling of what would one day be the Great Hall. She prodded it with her wand until it stuck, before moving it 0.2cm to the left.

Then back to where it had started.

Then a millimetre or so to the right.

Then, a look of mild annoyance on her face, back to the left.

From floor level, a familiar bored drawl said: 'If you don't stick it somewhere, Ravenclaw, I won't think twice about tipping over this ladder.'

'Shut up,' Rowena replied automatically.

'You know, you could have just charmed it into the perfect position—'

'Shut up.'

'—Which would have taken about five seconds, instead of the half an hour you've been up there.'

'Shut,' Rowena replied, slowly, 'up.' She began her descent down the ladders, shaking her head and considering the many faces of Salazar Slytherin she had discovered during the previous two hours they had spent decorating the Great Hall together:

First there was the "What you see is what you get" Slytherin she had met six years ago. This was a Salazar based on first impressions: he was grouchy, defensive, judgemental and arrogant. At eleven years old she had first met this Salazar, and since then he had coldly greeted many others.

The next face was named "Slytherin", pronounced with an edge of venom. He teased and taunted and generally made a nuisance of himself, and Rowena was quite happy to beat him soundly with a stick.

"Salazar" was the friendlier side of him; the side that flirted and chatted and made generally okay-company, though he didn't seem to surface much. "War Slytherin" was the toughest side Rowena had seen of him, though she had only one recollection of his appearance in the face of Godric. "Sally" was the more pathetic and idle version of him.

There were many more: "Show-Off Sally", "Happy Sally", "Brooding Sally", "I-know-a-song-that'll-get-on-your-nerves Sally", "Out in public Sally"…

As she touched down on the cold stone floor, Rowena wondered which Salazar she was about to come face-to-face with. The only way to find out was to complain:

'You could've told me there was a charm two hours ago, you know, before I started putting the decorations up.'

He shrugged in response and agreed: 'I could have done, but I could see up your dress while you were up there.'

Rowena wheeled around to face him, a sudden tinge of red appearing in her cheeks. _'What?'_

'I'm kidding,' he said, with a superior grin. Rowena released a breath as the redness faded. He seemed to be a "Salazar" and "I-know-a-song-that'll-get-on-your-nerves Sally" cross this evening.

In a desperate attempt to change subject, Rowena said: 'I'm beginning to wonder the point of this party, Salazar. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I'm starting to wonder if it's just an excuse for you to be annoying.'

'Of course not, Ravenclaw. Only someone completely paranoid and self-obsessed would think _that_.'

'Good point. You don't need an excuse to be annoying.'

'Touché.'

Unintentionally using a defensive tone, Rowena said, 'I'm not paranoid and self-obsessed.'

Salazar raised his eyebrows for a split second and, with his back to her, busied himself with taking the ladder down. 'I know. I was just being a prat.'

'No change there, then. Need a hand?'

_'Bloodyfuckinghellouch_. No, this is a man's job.'

Rowena nodded in understanding and took a few steps back, mainly to admire her handiwork but also to watch Salazar struggle with the enormous ladders, which were currently threatening to collapse on his head.

'You could always charm it away,' Rowena smiled, enjoying the role-reversal.

'I know, I'm going to. Shut up.'

Rowena grinned again, finally understanding the joy that came with irritating a failure. No wonder Salazar got such a kick out of it.

The would-be Great Hall was looking very…decorative. Sort of. Well, it was like getting a piece of mud, painting it pink, adding tassels and bells and a smiley face. Decorated? Yes. Pretty? In a strange way, yes. Different? Yes. But still a piece of mud. Regardless of how many enormous red ribbons donned the area where the walls met the ceiling, and regardless of how many banners were on the walls and how many tables and chairs and suspicious ale-keg looking things sat around the floor…it was still a big, stone room. Big, chilly, empty, imposing and, well, stony.

'I have a splinter,' Salazar complained grouchily, once the ladders had been successfully charmed away.

'Oh dear,' Rowena replied, without much sympathy. She didn't want to encourage him. 'If you'd just done a spell on them straight away, like I said, you wouldn't—'

'It's not that. I got it from my wand.'

At this, Rowena had to giggle. Salazar's face remained as stony as the hall around him.

'It's not funny,' he said, sulkily, 'it's about an inch long.'

Rowena giggled so hard she almost doubled over. Lord, she had a mind like a privy sometimes.

Salazar caught up. 'Oh, very funny. I _meant _the splinter, you idle-minded pervert.'

Rowena sobered up. 'Sorry,' she mumbled, allowing herself to smile only very slightly.

'Well, are you going to get it out for me? Oh, don't laugh. I meant the splinter.'

Rowena re-sobered herself. 'Yes, fine. Where is it?'

Salazar raised his left hand, so the palm faced upwards. They were stood at least seven feet away from each other but, apparently acting on principle, Salazar didn't approach her. Rowena sighed and walked towards him.

She grabbed hold of his hand in a firm, no-nonsense sort of way and proceeded to prod the area for about thirty seconds, to a chorus of "ouches" from Salazar, who eventually said, 'Yes, very good, it's out,' and pulled his hand away from her.

Rowena regarded him sceptically. 'No it isn't, I can still see it.'

'Well, I'll find a charm later. You'd think a simple _Accio _would work—'

'I thought about that, but who's to say it's not going to just shoot off into my hand?'

'Better yours than mine.'

She grabbed his hand again and continued to poke. He continued to flinch in a pathetic manner.

'You know,' she said, as the prodding continued, 'your complete inability to touch a member of the opposite sex without physically baulking reveals a lot about your relationship with women.'

Salazar rolled his eyes, but finally ceased his flinching. 'Thank you, Doctor Freud.'

'You're welcome, Mr Potato Head.'

'I don't want to worry you, but you clearly have the hands of a butcher – argh! Give up, she-devil—'

'Oh, do be quiet,' she sighed, as he snatched his hand away. 'Why can't I just get it out the muggle way?'

Normally, Salazar made an effort to keep his gaze locked on whoever he was speaking to; mainly, Rowena suspected, in an attempt to put them off. Now he suddenly looked away and mumbled beneath his breath.

'What was that?' Rowena asked, theatrically.

'I _said_, it nips a bit. Kind of painful. Who knows what internal damage you might be inflicting?'

Rowena stared at him disbelievingly for a while. 'I cannot believe you just said that,' she said, eventually.

'Well, it's true.'

'Do you realise you're being a complete woman?'

He rolled his eyes again. 'Oh, yes. "Do my breasts look big in this?"'

'It's "bum", Salazar. "Bum", not breasts.'

He waved his splinter-free hand at her impatiently. 'I'll never understand your language. Is that all the decorating you're going to do?'

Rowena sniffed in a disapproving manner. The phrase Salazar had just used was the interior design equivalent of "so, is _that _what you're wearing?"

'Yes, that's all I'm doing. Is that quite alright with you?'

He shrugged and examined the decorativeness of the Hall. 'We probably didn't need as many ribbons.'

'Just shut up.'

* * *

'Helly?'

'Mm?'

'I feel like…'

'Yes?'

'A horse.'

Helga reluctantly removed her gaze from the dog-eared pages of her book and surveyed her friend sceptically. 'A what?'

'A horse,' Rowena repeated, glaring at her reflection despairingly. 'It's this dress, that's what it is.'

'Um, Ro?'

'Yes?'

'The dress is blue.'

'Yes.'

'Horses aren't.'

'That's not very comforting, Helly, but thank you for the observation nonetheless.'

'No problem. Are you nervous, Ro?'

Rowena tried to shrug casually and failed; the gesture looked more like a shudder. She tore her eyes away and turned to the window. Twilight was approaching, and the sky was heavy with dark grey clouds. Villagers swarmed up the hill to the castle, illuminated by points of white wand-light.

'A few people are on the way,' she announced, to avoid answering Helga's question.

'How many?'

'I don't know…twenty, maybe? Twenty-five? They're all in a group.'

'Oh Lord, I hope they're not muggles on a witch-hunt. Remember when that happened at school?'

Rowena nodded, and allowed herself to laugh at the memories. 'I remember you turning one of them into a goat when they tried invading the transfiguration classroom…'

'That was an accident!'

'…And Salazar whipped off his tunic and started riding it around the room singing an inappropriate song about French girls?'

'I remember! He was lucky not to get kicked out!'

'_He _was lucky? Helly, we turned two of them into fish and poured them down the latrine!'

'In self-defence! Besides, we were only in our second year, we were naïve and shocked, and couldn't be held responsible for our actions…'

'…And that's our story and we're sticking to it! Oh Lord, remember when Crispin Lightfoot went into the latrine a week later and—'

'Poor Crispin!'

'Shock of his life, poor lad. He still walks a bit funny, you know.'

'Like a duck, so I hear.'

Rowena's smile faded again as she caught sight of the second group of villagers heading towards the castle. There were perhaps thirty points of light above them.

'I look like a horse,' she said again.

Helga shook her head and assured her, 'You look fine. Just concentrate on smiling at people and handing out biscuits, and all will be well.'

Smoothing the none-existent wrinkles from her gown, Rowena pondered, 'I wonder what the plan is for tonight, exactly?'

The worried expression on Helga's face suddenly worsened. 'You don't know?'

'No, I've really left it up to Salazar to plan things – I mean, I can't plan _everything_, you know…'

Helga sat down. 'Oh god.'

'Can't be that bad,' Rowena said, uncertainly. She figeted with her hair. 'I mean...OK he's a massive arse and intolerable git-head, but if it wasn't for him we would never have even bought the castle. So let's try and be nice,' she added, subtly.

'I will if he will,' Helga grumbled, crossing her arms.

Any further conversation was interrupted by a single knock on the door. It was the knock of someone who knew full well they were interrupting something and, if their knock went unanswered, would probably wander in anyway and be obnoxious. Only one person could knock like that.

'Come in, Slytherin.'

He obediently did so, looking mainly bored and faintly amused. The only effort he had made regarding his appearance was to clean his tunic and tie back his hair; he hadn't even shaved his beard, and one trouser leg had a funny orange stain at the bottom.

He drew a deep breath, and then greeted them with a slight overstatement: 'Hello, friends.' Diverting his attention to Helga alone, he added: 'Blondey, get downstairs. Tall, dark and ghastly needs some help.'

Helga stared. 'Who?'

'Godders.'

'Oh! Godric, well, OK.' She hoisted her breasts an inch or so higher. 'Are you coming, Ro?'

Ro, giggling silently, sobered up and shook her head. 'I'll be down in a minute or two. I have another five minutes of self-nullifying hatred scheduled.'

'Oh, alright. I'll see you in the hall, then. Good luck.'

'Yeah…'

The door slammed shut after Helga as she left the room, leaving Rowena and Salazar alone together. Rowena stood up.

'Alright, how much did you hear?'

Salazar smirked and leant against the closed door. 'Not that much, actually. From about "Poor Crispin" onwards— and, by the way, I don't see why you care so much, because Crispin Lightfoot is a complete tit.'

'Oh. So you heard—'

'Rowena, I'm surprised the entire castle didn't hear you call me an arse.' He sniffed. His glare faltered. 'Actually, it...sort of hurt my feelings.'

Rowena blinked. 'Really?'

'Don't be an idiot.'

Yet again, she smoothed the none-existent wrinkles from her dress and combed the none-existent stray hairs on her head. 'You say that, Salazar,' she said, her eyes locked on the reflection of the one hair that dared stick out, 'but I know you're dying on the inside.'

'Yes. Of course.'

'Salazar, do I look like a horse?'

'No.'

She waited a while for him to add something to that assertion. He didn't.

'Oh. Thanks.'

'No problem. Do my breasts look big in this?'

'Absolutely.'

'Fantastic. When are you planning on coming downstairs?'

'As soon as I stop feeling like I might vomit on the first visitor I lay eyes on…what's going on, by the way?'

'In the hall?' He shrugged and made himself comfortable on Rowena's chair, flicking through Helga's discarded book. 'Not much.'

'"Not much"? There must be something.'

'Fine, there's much frolicking and frivolity, some schmoozing and an ample amount of recreation. Archery, that sort of thing. Badger baiting. Whatever.'

Rowena turned on him, hands on hips. 'What in hell are you talking about?'

'No idea.' He shrugged and, catching her look of concern, said, 'Look, it's going to be fine.'

Rowena gave a bitter laugh. 'How can you possibly be sure?'

'Because I planned it,' he said, calmly, 'and my whole life has been a series of rolling successes.'

'You brought ale, didn't you?'

'Of course.'

'_Salazar!_'

He grinned, stood up and held the door open for her. 'I'm kidding, Ravenclaw, of course. I'm not the sort of person who would involve alcohol in such an important and formal occasion.'

As she began her descent downstairs, Rowena replied: 'Yes, you are.'

'There you have it, then.'

'Just…behave,' she mumbled, glancing back at him. 'I'm the one in charge of this evening.'

'Sure you are.'

'I am! I'm a mature, responsible adult.'

'Yes,' said Salazar, sarcastically, 'and I am Eros, God of physical love.'

'A small, demonic child in a nappy.'

He considered the thought briefly, then answered, 'Damn straight.'


	9. Chapter 9: No Way Back

**Chapter 9: No Way Back**

The surface of the giant lake rippled gently in the warm, August breeze. A gentle glow of silver light highlighted each individual wave that crept towards the bank, where water met earth and left a muddy ring.

As yet, the lake was uninhabited. The frogspawn of the springtime had died, and even the beetles avoided the watery graveyard. The dark forest sprawled nearby; the broken bones of trees shining grey in the moonlight.

Deep in the forest, in a vacant clearing guarded by trees and creeping vines, something stirred. A blinking yellow eye…a flickering, pointed tongue…a smooth, uncoiling body...

For a second it remained stationary, raised head swaying blindly from side to side. Then it set off determinedly in search of pray, gathering speed as it approached the outskirts of the forest…

* * *

Rowena found herself alone, cast adrift in the dense ocean of dense locals. Their chatter and shouting rang across the hall like a chant or a jeer.

At least a quarter of the villagers present could be immediately discounted from the list of possible future employees, being a damn sight too merry for this time in the evening. That kind of thing made people uncomfortable. However, the list of people who might consider sending their children to Hogswash was pleasantly long. Some parents had even brought their offspring along with them.

This was all well and good until, with a horrible sinking feeling, Rowena realised there were several who couldn't have been more than a few months younger than her.

She stumbled her way through the crowd, offering as many hellos and curtseys as time allowed. In theory, the large stone hall should have been able to accommodate all seventy-five-ish people present with plenty of room to spare. However, the general population of the hall appeared to be dividing into large groups, each of whom congregated around one of the four giant, bubbling ale kegs.

At first, she'd tried to convince herself if was sheer coincidence that people were gathering at a central point in the room. After all, she reasoned, no one wants to stand near the walls for reasons of hygiene. _Of course_ people were bound to split into separate groups, it was what people did.

However, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't ignore the way these groups were inching closer and closer towards the kegs, their expressions eager with anticipation. Nor could she ignore the faint clinking of tankards as they were sneakily withdrawn from their hiding places, beneath layers of capes and tunic.

From behind her, a voice in her ear said: 'Ravenclaw.'

She turned to face — of course — Salazar Slytherin. The look on his face was one of intense boredom, coupled with mild dissatisfaction.

'Could be worse,' she said, half-heartedly.

Salazar sniffed disapprovingly at her cheerfulness. 'No need to tell _me_, Rowena. I'm not the one looking miserable—'

'Yes you—'

'—no more than what's usual, anyway.'

Rowena sighed. 'It's not-'

'_What? _I can't hear you over the sound of my dying ambitions.' In this case, Salazar's dying ambitions was the sound of a huddle of five or six elderly men discussing wild boar, with a slightly drunken slur.

Taking the hint, Rowena beckoned Slytherin to follow her as she wove between the crowds forming around the ale keg and stood with him near the outskirts of the room, where the crowd was thinnest.

He surveyed her sceptically, with a new trace of amusement Rowena couldn't fathom but had no time to enquire about. 'Yes?' he prompted her.

'Mm.' She hopped around a while. 'It's not, er, looking very promising, is it? For how much it's cost us.'

Salazar tucked a lock of stray hair behind his ear and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Then, he said, 'I wouldn't say so, no.'

Rowena didn't reply, but banged her head slowly against the wall.

Compensating for her silence, in his usual bored tones, he continued, 'Then again, it's a bit early to say. At least we have people here— lured by the promise of alcohol, I'll admit— and there are plenty of potential students. Alright, perhaps no one's as bowled over and desperate to enrol their children as we'd like them to be, but you work with what you're given. What we need is a leadership figure, and I'm sure the big ginger's going to live up to his reputation…see?' On cue, Godric stepped onto the makeshift stage at the front of the Hall.

He cleared his throat. As soon as he did, a temporary hush fell upon the visitors, although it quickly built up again. Quieter, though.

In his usual booming voice, Godric announced: 'Ladies and gentleman,' (another sudden lowering of volume), 'on behalf of my fellow School founders and myself, I am pleased and honoured to welcome you all, as esteemed guests, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We are sincerely grateful for your decision to join us here this evening, and hope that you will face the night with as much merriment as we shall.'

Rowena, mouth agape, shifted her gaze from the redhead on stage to Slytherin, whose jaw was similarly dropped. Her giggling alerted him to this.

'Bloody Gryffindor,' he muttered, quickly looking away and back to Rowena, 'can you believe the cheek of it? I don't remember agreeing to that name…'

His speech continued, thought Rowena and Salazar were the only people ignoring him. 'Come on,' said Rowena, 'don't tell me you aren't even a _little _bit impressed by that.'

'By what? A giant, red pillock gets himself in front of an audience and starts flattering the money out of their pockets. You expect me to be stood in open-mouthed awe and respect?'

'You had your mouth opened a minute ago,' she pointed out, ignoring his snark, 'and you looked distinctly gawpy.'

'It was the shock,' he insisted. 'It's not everyday you see a large bunch of strangers fall for one imbecilic mudblood.'

The last statement caused Rowena to freeze suddenly. The world slowed down.

_Mud-what?_

Oblivious to her confusion, Salazar continued, 'He must be using some sort of sonorous charm. I'm telling you, no one has a voice naturally that booming.'

_Did you say mud…?_

'Honestly. Bad enough he looks like a prat, he has to talk like one as well.'

_You did, didn't you?_

'And look at Hufflepuff, all glazed eyes and drooling. Ha, see she's not alone, though…there's an old lady over there getting very red in the face. Hm, she might be drunk, actually.'

_Maybe, he…didn't…Maybe I misheard. Maybe he said…_

'Hang on, a group of teenage girls swooning over Godders? That just won't do.'

_I should say something…_

'Yeah,' said Rowena, gulping uneasily, 'it's a bit odd, isn't it?'

Salazar shrugged. 'I'm used to seeing it, but honestly. They're as bad as Helga at disguising the fact. Might as well all be waving white handkerchiefs at him and winking suggestively.'

'I don't think many of those girls could get away with _white _handkerchiefs, Salazar.'

He shot her a genuinely amused glance. The corners of his mouth curled upwards slightly. 'You catty little biatch,' he said, mildly. 'Then again, you can talk. Fraternisations in broom closets all around for you, so I hear.'

She gave him a scolding tap on the arm. 'You're the one who dragged me in there.'

'Of course, you _would _say that.'

'Wearing a towel, of all things.'

'Alright, alright, that's quite enough detail you've preserved in that good old memory of yours.'

'Quite a small towel, as well—'

'Rowena, don't make me set the frogs on you.'

She shrugged and returned her gaze to Godric, mumbling, 'You started it.'

Godric, who now held the rapt attention of at least ninety per cent of the room, waved his wand impressively to emphasise a point he was making. Among the crowd, there was an impressed "ooh".

Quietly, to avoid disturbing the attention of the now transfixed villagers surrounding them, Rowena said: 'He's doing…rather well, isn't he?'

Salazar raised an eyebrow, but other than that didn't reply.

On stage, Godric was bringing his speech to a close, '…We can only promise that which we can deliver and, good citizens, we can promise the safety and security of your children, their happiness and joviality and, most vitally, a bright and successful future as a result of the finest quality education they will receive at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' He paused for a second, beaming proudly at himself. 'There is no way back from here, good citizens. You are welcomed to Hogwarts with open arms, under the safe, professional and experienced wings of our teaching staff...Thank you.'

For a few seconds, there was complete silence as everyone in the Hall stared at Godric, the extravagant wordsmith, admiringly. The ale was long forgotten. Every one— even Salazar, for the moment — was completely taken in.

Then the ribbons fell down.

_Bugger_, thought Rowena, as the soft noise of crumpling fabric and the gentle "whoosh" of air filled the hall, _Bugger, bugger, bugger._

In a very matter-of-fact way, Salazar summarised: 'Bugger.'

The silence lasted seconds. The atmosphere shattered.

Someone shouted:

'_Ale!_'

And all hell broke lose.

* * *

The thing in the forest continued to move, streaking silently forwards and not even slowing as it dodged between trees.

The flesh gleamed in the moonlight. Every so often there could be heard the snapping of a branch or rustling of dead leaves, or the sudden movement of an owl as the thing took a snap at it.

It smelled food, doused in warm alcohol and splattered in mud as it stumbled through the wet grass. It paused, hidden behind the bare tree trunks. It was blind, but could sense someone— definitely getting on in years— as he fell, drunkenly. He swore, mumbled something and giggled.

The creature raised its head and emerged from the forest.

Seeing him, the man laughed and slurred, 'You're not real…'

There was a brief scream, then a snap. The creature returned to its place in the forest, feeling moderately better about itself.

* * *

Rowena struggled her way towards the stage, guided by the sound of Godric shouting, 'Please stop, good citizens! I'm sure there is enough ale for everyone— if it is indeed ale! Because I was told there would _certainly not be any ale!'_

As if all drawn together by an invisible hand, the "good citizens" of the great hall crashed together around the ale kegs, cheering and bellowing, elbowing each other to barge through. Resistance was futile. Not that anyone was resisting.

Rowena had watched, slightly taken aback, as Salazar's usual composed and disapproving expression was replaced by a look best described as "one who has narrowly avoided being knocked off his feet by a tankard bigger than his own head". Rowena, who was facing the onslaught, found herself suddenly turned this way and that as her arms and shoulders were pushed from opposite directions. She tottered backwards a few steps and, as Salazar's disgusted face vanished behind a sea of grinning drunkards, set off determinedly in search of higher ground.

The brief movement of a white object above the stage caught her eye: it was the Hogwarts banner as it curled up and fell from onto Godric's head, apparently offended at the scene before it. Still teetering through the celebrating crowds, she saw the fallen ribbons trampled underfoot, or else thrown in the air happily by those too young to drink. It was a ribbon massacre.

'It's time to dance!' said one black-toothed, bearded wizard, happily patting her on the head as he passed by.

'Eugh,' said Rowena.

'Ale!'

'This is a celebration!'

'Hogswash! Yes! I like it!'

'Get off my beard!'

'There's beer everywhere!'

'Ale!'

'Let's have some music!'

'_More ale!_'

'That's not my wand!'

'Get off my beard!'

'Raise a glass to Hogglemumph School of Ribbons and Raisins!'

'…Some more ale!'

The stage was closer. Rowena felt increasingly claustrophobic. Behind the few people barging towards her and pushing her backwards, Rowena could make out some blonde hair in a brown dress-

'OUCH!' As a boot-clad foot stamped on her foot, Rowena lost her balance. A final push sent her falling backwards, laying in an undignified heap on the floor. Somewhere ahead of her she heard Helga squeal, 'Ro! Godric, she's—'

One foot caught her in the ribs. Another stood on her hair. Between the short stabs of pain, Rowena only had time to think: _I blame the ribbons, I blame it all on the ribbons-_

Then one hand was suddenly wrapped around her wrist and she was being pulled upwards, stumbling, grabbed around the waist and dragged out of the crowd and onto her feet, then dropped and aching.

Regaining her breath and massaging her ribs, she began, 'Thanks, God—'

Salazar brushed himself down, one eyebrow cocked. 'God's a bit formal,' he said. 'I'll accept Salazar.'

She paused. 'Thanks, Salazar.'

He shrugged.

'Ro!' Helga squealed, appearing in front of him, 'Are you alright? Godric was about to get you but one of the ribbons attacked him, have you hurt yourself?'

Rowena ran her fingers through her now dusty hair in a vain attempt to make herself look half-decent.

'I didn't hurt myself,' she sighed, '_they _hurt myself, with more efficiency than I could ever hope to manage.'

'Anything serious? Are you bruised? Are you bleeding?'

'Did you hurt her?' Godric demanded, turning suddenly to Salazar.

_'Ale!'_

Salazar stared at him. Rowena did too. The only person not staring was Helga, who was busy ripping a makeshift tournique out of her underskirt.

Salazar said, 'What?'

'Did you _hurt her?_' Godric demanded, stepping forwards.

'He didn't,' said Rowena hurridley, as Salazar retaliated with another fierce step towards him. 'Godric, really. It's OK. He just helped me up.'

Eyes narrowed.

Above the din, someone began a warbling Ode to Buttocks.

'Really,' Rowena said again, as fists were clenched, 'boys. Stop it. I'm fine.'

'Low life,' said Godric: stern, simple, matter-of-fact. Hatred pulsed between them.

An invisible orchestra of woodwind, string and percussion leapt to life in the room, cascading into a jolly, if rather out of tune, number. Salazar offered an unmistakable growl, turned on his heel and vanished through the crowd.

Godric swallowed, muscles relaxing. 'Well, I see he's…there was clearly no need for any of this, any of this at all, if only Slytherin hadn't provided the assembly with ale this would never have occurred…and you're sure you are well, Miss Ravenclaw?'

Rowena nodded silently, brushing off the bandage Helga had haphazardly applied to her arm out of sheer awkwardness.

Helga cleared her throat and said, 'Well, that was a very fine speech, Godric. Very...booming.'

'I thank you, Miss Hufflepuff, though I can only claim responsibility for-'

What he could claim responsibility for, Rowena didn't find out. She vanished quietly from the stage, secure in the knowledge neither of the other two would notice her absence for at least five minutes. Now that everyone had acquired their ale, the floor of the great hall was considerably calmer. The crowd was more spread out and stood stationary, talking loudly over the music which some people danced to, though it was difficult to find any rhythm in it.

Sat by the back wall on a long table, brooding silently, was Salazar. He stared moodily at the floor with a jar of ale in his hand. Rowena took a seat next to him.

'Hello,' she said after a pause, loudly enough to be heard over the sound of the party but quiet enough for it not to be inappropriate.

After a further pause, Salazar sighed, looked up and replied, 'Hello.'

Rowena, like Salazar, looked straight ahead at the guests, many of whom appeared to be in a lot of pain. Apparently, not many of the present company were trained dancers.

'You look ridiculous,' he said, mildly. 'Like you've been dragged through twelve hedges and sat on by a flaming arsehole.'

'I don't care,' Rowena replied, honestly, 'and anyway, so do you. And you're not the one who narrowly avoided getting trampled to death.'

'That's true.' Salazar took a drink from his ale mug as a nearby wizard accidentally turned his own foot into a pig. Minor mayhem ensued.

'Hm,' said Rowena. Then: 'What was all that about, eh?' She coughed uneasily. 'Very testosteroney.'

'Yeah.'

'Nearly enough to get a girl pregnant.'

'Yeah.'

'Or grow a beard or something-'

'Shut up, will you?'

'Right.' She shuffled in her seat for a moment. 'Can I have a drink?'

Salazar handed her a fresh one - apparantly his cup was of the self-replenishing variety - and she took an experimental sip. It tasted like burnt iron and sugar beet. She wrinkled her nose and took a healthy swig.

The man with a pig on his foot managed to transfigure the pig into a teapot.

'You know you're in a bad mood,' Salazar said, through a sigh, 'when you can watch a man transfigure his foot into a teapot and not laugh.'

Rowena sighed. 'This is it, isn't it, Salazar? Our only chance to make this work.'

'Yeah. It's going rather well.'

'If "rather well" means I get stood on, the decorations abandon us, you and Godric have a sexual tension fight and a man grows a teapot-leg then _yes_, it's going wonderfully.'

'I think I know where you went wrong with the ribbons.'

'Well that's not really important.'

'I think you used someone else's wand.'

'Like I said, that's not really important.'

'Just a point for future reference.'

Rowena took a sideways look at Salazar and immediately wished she hadn't. For the first time, she was looking upon a very different Salazar Slytherin with a completely foreign look about him. His shoulders sagged and his eyes were vacant.

'It might have been Helga's wand, now I think about it,' she mumbled.

'Don't be nice Ravenclaw, for god's sake,' he muttered, desperately. 'Things must be getting really grim when you start being civil.'

'I'm always civil!'

'Did you genuinely just use the phrase "sexual tension fight"?'

'I didn't say I wasn't a pervert,' she said, holding her head up defensively.

Salazar took another drink. 'Grim. Anyway, I really don't think we're doing that badly, all things considered.'

'What do you mean?'

'Tonight, the party. The guests will leave with a blurred memory and overall feeling of a great time and a terrible headache, and by September I'm sure they'll be begging us to take their money away from them.'

'If you say so, Salazar.'

'Trust me.'

'What about Godric?'

He shrugged. 'I don't care. Neither should you.'

'But—'

'I swear to god, if you ask us to kiss and make up I will have you publicly executed. You're not bad, you know,' he added, snatching back the cup and taking a deep swig, 'not really.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, uncomfortably. 'Thanks?'

'Well, you're not as stupid as you look, at any rate.'

'Right.'

'I still hate you.'

'Good.' She felt herself, against all expectations, _blushing_. 'I hate you too. But - you're not so bad either, really.'

Salazar laughed quietly and passed her back the ale. 'Grim. Very grim.'

'Shut up.'

Rowena took a few moments to consider the conversation between Salazar and Godric, though the fine details were slipping through her memory like water in her hand. Low life…why low life? What had Salazar ever done to warrant such suspicion, such venom? There was nothing so terrible, as far as she could remember…nothing more then general name-calling and getting people into trouble, and generally being a pain in the neck. Nothing more than childhood pranks.

But then, the mutter of _mudblood..._

'Drink up,' said Salazar, gesturing to the cup in Rowena's hand, 'you'll forget about it all tomorrow.'

Rowena doubted it very much. But she drank up anyway.

What happened afterwards…she wasn't really sure.


	10. Chapter 10: Worse Than a Hang Over

**Chapter 10: The Only Thing Worse Than Your First Hang-Over**

Rowena, with all the effort she could muster, opened her left eyelid. She saw something grey. Her right eyelid opened. It was still grey.

Several thoughts occurred to her all at once, unable to sort themselves into something approaching a rational order. Most of these thoughts involved the word "ouch", though there was some variation, such as, "ouch!" "sodding ouch!" "oh my Lord, ouch!" "oh…ouch!" and "kill me now! Ouch!"

Most ouches came from the inside of her head, which was throbbing intensely while also fluttering. She felt as if her brain had been replaced by a very loud butterfly. Some other ouches originated from her chest, currently squashed against something hard, flat and, according to her bleary eyes, grey.

There were ouches from her waist and hips, which were turned another way from the rest of her. Mentally attempting to map her body's current position, Rowena gathered her legs and hips were sideways on the hard grey thing while her upper-half was flat. Her arms…oh, she didn't have time to worry about those. Something was behind her ear…feels like a wand. Well, that was a relief. With a slight groan as her butterfly headache raged on, she rolled onto her back.

_Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch…_

At least some of the pain subsided. She screwed her eyes shut quickly as her brain swam through the treacle in her skull. Now her back hurt. Actually, all her bones hurt. Particularly the joints. Her hair smelt vaguely of some kind of alcoholic substance.

_Oh, Merlin, _she thought, miserably, _if I never touch a drop of ale again…_

Right, so she was hung over. That answered a lot of questions. It could have been worse; at least she wasn't dead. Though at least death would put a stop to the invisible owl pecking her head.

Step one complete: explanation found.

Step two: Where the Hell am I?

She slowly opened her eyes. Fortunately, she was not met with blinding sunlight and singing bluebirds, but a slightly damp black ceiling, which meant she was on the floor. That was a definite relief.

Which ceiling?

She turned her head to the left and right and saw more grey. _Walls…walls are good. No furniture. That means I could be in an empty classroom… _she raised her head slightly to look what was past her feet, immediately causing a searing pain in her neck.

_Ouch. Not a classroom, but a corridor. Corridors are good. I can handle corridors. Which corridor?_

Very slowly and clumsily, she ambled to her feet. It was a long process, and she found it necessary to steady herself on the damp walls around her as the floor moved up and down. The phrase "Euuuuugh" found a new place in her vocabulary.

She looked down the corridor and saw nothing but a dim light as it eventually turned right. No, thank you. She looked the other way and saw, eventually, an oak door. She froze, quickly administering the facts:

An oak door. Slightly ajar. With my left shoe keeping it from closing fully. A door at the end of a damp, underground corridor. _Salazar's door!_

Hundreds of potential memories flooding her brain, making her feel suddenly very sobered, Rowena squeaked in panic and, left shoe still missing, hobbled away in the other direction. The dim light looked suddenly very appealing.

* * *

Godric blinked a few times, and declared himself awake.

Overall, quite a pleasant night. Uninterrupted sleep, once the drunkards had been ushered out…well, the visiting drunkards, anyway. Slytherin and Miss Ravenclaw couldn't be shown the door, no matter how tempted he was to remove them when they ambushed him in a corridor and called him "Godders", Rowena giggling as she did so.

All the socialising had tired him out. Oh, and the fighting and struggling with burly drunken men. Despite the unsavoury fuel of the alcohol, the party appeared to have been quite a success; the guests were impressed, the castle was easily cleaned and no one was left hurt…

* * *

Helga was laid flat on her bed, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. A tiny voice in her brain said: Shut your damn eyes, Helga.

She'd stood in a corner most of the night, dumbly watching the fun and drunken fumblings take place around her. Slytherin and Rowena, clearly in no sound mind, had laughed a lot and spoken—or should that be shouted?—to most guests present, loading their arms with discarded Hogwarts ribbons and providing more and more alcohol.

Godric spent most of the night breaking up fights and being his usual charming, noble self. Bastard that he was. After about an hour of standing on her own, Helga moped away from the still raging party and off to her room, as a group of attractive teenage girls elbowed past her and in the direction of Godric determinedly.

Helga sighed and slid out of bed. She didn't understand herself, sometimes. She didn't understand anything.

_Hogsboggle School of Blah-Blah and Crap_. _Why do I feel like a sodding babysitter?_

* * *

More or less like Rowena, Salazar woke up saying:

'_Ouuuuuch!_' This was followed by a groan, then a headache that swelled at the sound of his voice, a sideways roll and an agonised headbutt.

Unable to bear the pain any longer, he flung out his arm and fumbled around until his hand came into contact with his wand. He pointed it at himself and, resisting all urges to scream "Avada Kedavra!" instead whispered, '_Poena desino_.'

The pain quickly subsided until he was left with only a slight throbbing in his left temple, which he decided he could live with.

He sat up and was quite relieved to find himself in bed. He was only _slightly _disappointed to find himself alone as, when drunk, he had a notoriously lax sense of judgement, and wouldn't be at all surprised to find himself next to a hairy-backed woman and her pet bull-mastiff.

Well, initially he'd be surprised, shocked and terrified, but once the appropriate memory modifying charms had been handed out and he'd taken the longest, hottest shower of his life, he would look back and say, "Oh, actually, I'm not that surprised", possibly.

It didn't really bear thinking about.

Salazar rolled out of bed and slipped into the nearest clothing he could find. Despite the miracle cure, he still felt groggy with tiredness and a bloodstream full of alcohol. What exactly had he been up to?

He lay back in his bed and concentrated. Somewhere in his short-term memory was the sight of Gryffindor, wearing in a pink dress, flying around the room showering objects in fairy dust as they started to dance. _Dear God, I hope I was hallucinating_. Eugh.

Okay, onto more realistic memories…let's see…

_There was alcohol, and it didn't taste very good. Oh yes, that was mine. There was dancing all around and…a tour of the castle?...Who else was there—Rowena? Lord, I didn't know she had it in her._

_What else…? Something about…Godders…and…_

His eyebrows knotted as he concentrated hard on retrieving the memories.

_Did Rowena try to plait my hair?_

He briefly checked his hair which, to his relief, was unaltered.

_Something…about…pushing the guests out of the backdoor for fun…and…ribbons? Bloody ribbons…_

_Then…walking…somewhere…_

…_Under the lake?..._

…_Did we set someone's hat on fire?..._

He frowned. As far as he could recall, by the end of the night he and Rowena were alone.

_Then…_

…_Then…_

…_Then…? Then what?_

He looked around him for clues. Lodged between the door and it's frame was a woman's shoe. Everything else seemed ordinary…

He glanced suddenly at the wand in his hand. Then he glanced inside the drawer by his bed where he kept _his_ wand.

The drawer was empty. He was holding Ravenclaw's.

Salazar spluttered incoherently, and wished he was drunk again.

* * *

Rowena was jolted out of her semi-catatonic state by a knock at her office door. She snorted, sat up and quickly patted down her hair. Then she said, 'Oh god,' and ducked beneath the table.

Through the door, Salazar called, 'Ravenclaw?'

Rowena concentrated very intently on not saying anything. The wood was pleasantly cool against her skin, and there was definitely no sunlight under her desk; she could quite happily stay there for some time.

'Ravenclaw?'

'Go away!' she squeaked, pulling her knees up to her chin.

The door opened.

Salazar hesitated, scanning the office for a moment. There was a jumble of books and beakers and tapestries, but no sign of semi-intelligent life.

'Just, er, returning your shoe,' he called, nonchalantly, 'and your, er, coded phallic reference...'

Rowena said, '_What?_'

Nothing was said for a moment or two. Then the sound of Salazar's footsteps as he circled the office chairs. Rowena winced. He arrived at the desk.

He said, 'Ravenclaw?'

Rowena said, 'Yes?' to his legs.

After another bizarre moment of silence, Salazar ducked down to her level. She attempted to look haughty.

He said, 'You're under a desk.'

'Yes?' she demanded, weakly. 'What of it?'

He blinked. He'd showered. Rowena hated him for that. He said, 'Er...I brought your shoe.'

'Right,' she squeaked.

'And your, erm-'

'Something about a phallus?' she said, mind spinning.

'Your wand,' he said, waving the object in front of her. 'I think you might...have...mine?'

'On my desk!' she squeaked. She was doing well for squeaking.

'Ah?' He reached up, head vanishing for a moment over the desk top. Rowena took the opportunity to curse herself silently. 'Ah, I see, got it.' He cleared his throat. He looked her up and down. He said, '_Why _are you under a table, again?'

Rather than answering this, Rowena took the sensible option and yelped, 'There was no coitus!'

Salazar fell over backwards. 'I'm sorry?'

'No genitals!' she said, wide-eyed with conviction. 'I'm fairly sure they didn't make contact at any point!'

'Er - right?' he said, struggling upright. 'I'm - yes, right. OK.'

'It takes forty minutes for me to get my dress off!'

'I believe you!'

They stared at each other for a moment.

Then Rowena squeaked, 'Leave now!'

'Right!'

As the door slammed shut after him, Rowena banged her head against the table leg. Loudly.

* * *

Several weeks after the party, when tensions had just about simmered down to normal, a large barn owl arrived. After politely crapping on Godric's vacant seat, it deposited a sealed envelope on his breakfast and flew away.

Rowena and Helga exchanged confused glances. Gingerly reaching across the table, Rowena opened it and read aloud:

_Dear Hogswart School Founders,_

_I write to congratulate you on the success of your recent banquet. Impressed by what I saw, my wife and I have decided we would very much like for our darling son, Arthur, to attend your wonderful school as of September. Enclosed are his details for enrolment._

_Yours,_

_Cedric Root_

The small slip of paper attached gave a list of personal details, including age, hobbies and useful allergies. By the time the two girls had finished reading, a dozen new owls had appeared in various spots around the room, happily relieving themselves.

'This is wonderful!' Helga squealed, after a stunned silence.

'If that's what floats your kayak, Hufflepuff,' Salazar mumbled through a yawn as he entered the hall, 'I've got nothing against it. It's going to be a nightmare to clean out of the rugs, though.'

'Not the bird doings,' Helga hastily explained, 'I mean the letters.'

'Why? What is it?'

Rowena smiled and leapt to her feet, regaining the power of speech. 'Letters! From parents! Saying they want to send their filthy little children to our school! Isn't it great, Sally?'

Salazar raised a cynical eyebrow and replied, 'I don't know whether I'm more annoyed about you calling me Sally or your squeaky, optimistic voice at eight o'clock in the morning.'

'Wheee!' said Rowena happily, ceasing up the letters and dispersing the owls with a jolly skip. Her dream! Realised! Everything taking shape! Things working perfectly! What did he mean, squeaky? Joy! Ooh…headache…too early for skipping.

Re-entering the hall to find owl excrement on his chair and Rowena prancing around the room joyously with a hand to her temple while Salazar and Helga looked on, in Helga's case smiling and in Salazar's case wondering if he was hallucinating, Godric was understandably rather stunned.

'Is, er, everything quite all right, Miss Rowena?'

'Godric! Great news! It's working! Look, read the letters! Wheee! Oh God…aspirin! Wheee!'

With this final "wheee!" of delight, Rowena skipped from the room and remained smiling all day, occasionally cackling with joy.

To her further delight, they continued to receive at least five owls per day for the rest of the week. Rowena made time to count the letters daily over breakfast in the great hall, Salazar watching her with an expression of silent amusement.

'…thirty-seven,' said Rowena, happily.

'Thirty-seven?' said Salazar, lost.

'…plus twenty-four.'

'…Equals sixty-one.'

'Does it?'

'Seven plus four plus twenty plus thirty.'

'…Alright, I believe you. Wow! Sixty-one students, can you believe it? I wonder if we'll get to one hundred?'

To Rowena's slight disappointment, the two further letters they received that morning were the last they would receive that year.

'Oh well,' she said, cheerily, 'that's still sixty-three more than I expected. I wish these owls didn't leave such a mess,' she added, placing the letters in their allotted piles.

'What are they for?' Salazar asked, leaning back casually in his chair and gesturing to the aforementioned piles.

'I've sorted the letters into groups: first years, second years, third years and so on, up to seventh year.'

'I didn't know we'd be teaching seventh year.'

'Of course we are, why wouldn't we be?'

_'We _were seventh year, just a couple of months ago.'

'Well in that case we're experienced. Look, nine students in seventh year! Five in sixth, thirteen in fifth, ten in fourth, eleven in third, eight in second and seven in first.'

Salazar quickly worked out her calculations on his fingers, possibly in an attempt to prove her math skills wrong.

'Don't bother,' she said, warningly, 'I've checked and double checked.'

'Hm,' said Salazar, grudgingly. Then, as she began her third re-read of the letters that morning, he asked in an off-hand manner, 'Rowena, do you have any idea where Hufflepuff is?'

'Helga?' Rowena said, distractedly, 'She's probably in the library or something.'

'What about Godders?'

'Who?'

'Gryffindor.'

'Oh, he's…somewhere.'

'Have you any idea what day it is?'

'Hm, does it matter?'

'Rowena?'

'What?'

'Have you noticed the sudden abundance of furnishings, text books, desks and equipment present in the castle?'

'Hm? Come again?'

'Thought not.'

Rowena still didn't look up to see Salazar's smug grin, but it was there.

* * *

That night, at precisely 11.55 pm:

Helga knocked tentatively on the door to Rowena's chamber.

'Ro?' she called, 'Ro, are you there?'

Receiving no reply, she tried the door handle and found it unlocked. She pushed the door ajar slightly and looked inside.

On her vacant bed, Rowena's bedclothes lay on the blankets. Her shoes were missing, as was the cape she usually hung on the back of her door.

'Ro?' she tried again, though the room was clearly empty. 'Rowena?'

She pulled the cape she was using as a makeshift dressing gown further around her shoulders and withdrew her wand from a pocket. '_Lumos_,' she whispered. The tip of the wand obediently illuminated the path down from Rowena's room.

Helga trawled the corridors, checking vacant classrooms as she walked. Finally she found herself outside the great hall, still with no sign of her friend.

Something in the hall, however, moved.

Acting on instinct, she hissed, '_Expelliarmus!_' in the direction of the movement. She heard a short gasp, followed by a thud and cry of "oof!" that sounded all-too familiar…

'Godric! Oh Lord, I'm so sorry!' she dashed into the room to find Godric, looking slightly stunned, ambling to his feet.

'That's—er—quite alright, Helga, you just appear to have…ouch.'

'Very, very sorry,' she said again.

'Quite alright,' looking at her cape, he asked, 'are you going out somewhere?'

'What, me, no? N-no, I'm just wearing this, I don't have anything on underneath—' halting mid-sentence, skin turning a startling shade of red as she realised her mistake, she hastily corrected herself, 'I mean, I'm not wearing clothes to go anywhere in, just my nightclothes. I mean, I say "just", but they're actually quite abundant!'

'Er, oh,' said Godric, 'that's erm, very, er, what are you doing awake at this time?'

'I was looking for Rowena!' she squeaked, and proceeded to focus very carefully on not doing so for the rest of her sentence. 'I thought I heard her walking about a couple of times, and I've just checked her room and it looks as if she's gone somewhere.'

'Oh, really?'

'Yes…what are _you _doing here?'

'I had a headache and came in search of a glass of water,' he explained, in the same wooden, yet somehow friendly, tones he used during the day, though they were now slightly quieter and groggier than usual.

Helga noticed something about him, and commented on it: 'You're, er, wearing your daytime clothes…'

'Yes. What of it?'

'Just that, er, most people don't. At night.'

'I thought I'd change on the off-chance I ran into someone,' he mumbled, unconvincingly.

'Oh,' said Helga, while cursing herself for mentioning it in the first place.

'Also, I thought I heard Slytherin moving around,' he admitted.

'Oh. Hold on—Rowena and Slytherin? That can't be right, can it?'

Godric's honest forehead crumpled in deep thought. 'I'm sure they wouldn't go any where together, would they?'

Helga shook her head. The shake rapidly became a nod. 'You know, I think they would. Nowadays.'

He looked very puzzled. 'How strange. It's rather an improper pairing, isn't it? Rowena is far superior to Slytherin.'

The feeling in Helga's stomach suddenly tightened. 'Oh,' she managed, after a stunned spell, 'yes, she is.'

'Rowena,' he continued, 'happens to be a most excellent thinker, and the success of Hogwarts so far is owed largely to her. Slytherin, on the other hand, is pure scum.'

_Shit_, said Helga's brain, suddenly jolting. _Shit. No._

'I've grown to admire Miss Ravenclaw,' he continued, happily, 'far beyond what I ever expected.'

'Yes,' Helga eventually forced herself, hoarsly. 'Yeah. Ro's brilliant. She's very - she's very _pretty_, too.'

'No she isn't,' Godric said quickly. Helga's eyebrows shot up. 'Er—I mean, she's very fair, I'm sure, but I—my admiration for her determination is nothing—I mean I…don't like…her…um…I, er…someone…else.'

Helga's eyes were open rather wide. She may have been quite naive and self-effacing, but she wasn't _that _naive and self-effacing. She said, '…Oh?'

They shared a shy smile, for the time being forgetting all about Rowena and Salazar.

* * *

At precisely 11.30 pm that night:

Salazar finished pulling on his cape and adjusted his hair. Ah, vanity. Familiar, friendly vanity. That was one thing, at least, that hadn't changed since entering this Godforsaken castle.

Now, as for the other trademarks of a Slytherin: sneakiness, stealth, secrecy, the ability to move undetected—

'Hello, Salazar.'

_Holy hippogriff!_

Salazar walked into a table in shock. Rowena smirked and waved.

'Wotcher, Ravenclaw,' he replied, grudgingly.

She was sat on a lone chair by the door, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, looking decidedly superior. This was definitely getting in the way of his escape attempt.

'Going somewhere, Sally?'

'No, I was just going to see how warm it was outside. Lovely, isn't it? I'll have an excuse to work on my tan. Now bugger off.'

'Not likely. I may be living in a temporary state of euphoria, but I _have _noticed the sudden large amount of furniture in here.'

'Oh, really?' he asked, eyebrow raised in his usual cocky way. 'When _did _you notice, exactly?

Some of her smugness vanished. 'Er…well, when you pointed it out, actually. But that doesn't alter the fact that I'm very suspicious of you and where the hell you've been getting it all from.'

'…Furniture shop?' he suggested, quite limply.

'And I suppose you got the magic textbooks, potions, portraits and all the other random, enchanted hogwash from the furniture shop, too?'

'Isn't hogwash the name of the castle?'

'Answer the question.'

Salazar sighed and threw his arms up in defeat. 'Fine, fine! If you must know, there's a…place I buy them from.'

'A _place?_'

'It's a…' he sighed, unsure how to explain without giving her a bad impression, 'well, have you ever been to an auction?'

'An auction? Once or twice, yeah. Is it an auction?'

'Well, it's _like _an auction.'

Rowena stood up and stared at him suspiciously. 'Where do the similarities end?'

'Well, in this auction, if two people want to bid for the same thing they go outside and settle their differences by killing each other.'

_'What?'_

'Oh, come on Rowena, there's nothing sorts a problem out like a good old fight to the death.'

_'What?'_

'I mean, it's not like they both die, that's not quite the point. Only the weakest one.'

_'What?'_

'Huh, except that time in January when they both died at the exact same time, rigid fingers still locked around their enemies purple, swollen necks, bulbous eyes glaring with pure hatred.'

_'What?'_

'That was actually quite funny, because the enchanted suit of armour eloped with the second man's wife—'

'Salazar, stop it! I don't want to hear this! I'm shocked at you!'

Salazar looked quite confused. '"Shocked"?'

'Well…alright, mildly surprised.' She sighed. 'Really, Sally, it sounds…icky. I thought you were a proud, arrogant Slytherin; shouldn't you be above all of this?'

'Oh, I never fight,' he said, 'no, I just go for the bidding.' He grinned. 'Wholesome. That's my middle name.'

'Is that where you're going now?'

'Yes it is, and I have to be there before twelve o'clock so please stand aside.'

Rowena took a deep breath and declared, 'I'm coming with you.'

'You are certainly not!'

'Yes I am. If you're going, I'm going too, and there's no way you can stop me. I'll not let go of your ponytail, if I have to.'

Salazar sighed. 'Ok, two points we have to clarify: first of all, it isn't safe for you to come. Women are very second-class there…and I mean _very _second class; you'd probably be sold as a servant of some kind. Not only that, but the place is swarming with both wizards and muggles who are fully trained, experienced criminals and would probably murder you at the first opportunity. Not only _that_, but the things they sell there are bloody dangerous! Dark magic! It really isn't safe!' With a slight sniff of disapproval, he added, 'Secondly, it's not a ponytail. It's a _manly _ponytail. More of a...horsetail. Or a stallion tail.'

Rowena rolled her eyes and said, 'In response to your excellent points, I reply: firstly, I don't care, I'm coming whether you like it or not, and secondly: get over yourself, it's a ponytail.'

_'No_.'

'No to the first point or the second?'

_'Both_. I'm trying to _help_ you, god save me.'

'I know,' she replied, voice slightly quieter than she intended. 'And it's not that I don't trust you.'

'Then what is it?'

'I'm highly suspicious of you,' she said, 'there's a clear and marked difference.'

Salazar looked away and sighed. 'Fine, you can come. Just don't…do…anything!'

'Wheee.'

'Including that.'

'Sorry.'

'Dozy cow.'


	11. Chapter 11: The Mysterious Sorting Hat

**Chapter Eleven: The Mysterious Affair of the Sorting Hat**

'Eugh,' said Rowena, hurrying to catch up with Salazar as he strode down the hill towards the village, 'I think I just swallowed a hair.'

'Come again?' he said, several feet ahead of her with a voice smothered by the wind.

'I said I've just swallowed a hair!'

He stopped in his tracks to stare at her. Rowena took the opportunity to catch up with him, illuminated wand held out ahead of her to avoid falling over a badger or fox or whatever they had in Nature.

'Swallowed?' he repeated, eyebrows raised as they set off again through the darkness.

'Yeah, and it's making my throat itch something awful.'

'What, one of those bouncy rabbit things?'

She frowned. 'I said a hair, Sally. You know, one of those things that make up your ponytail?'

'Would you give up with that? You've put me in a bad enough mood as it is!'

'Oh, diddums, my heart is breaking. What have I done now?'

'You shouldn't be coming, Ravenclaw! I might just trade you for a magic teapot!'

'Ask them if they can throw an enchanted doily into the bargain.'

'Ha. Ha.'

They reached the outskirts of the village at last, but didn't slow down. Instead Salazar glanced at the sky and groaned, then grabbed Rowena roughly by the wrist and sprinted in the direction of a tall, raggedy inn. She had time to say "Marrgle!" and nothing else.

'Open up, please!' he shouted through the entrance, banging the door with his fists. It seemed to be an inn…quite a small one, all told. Rowena thought, _Surely that's not big enough for an auction?_

Aloud she said, 'Salazar you silly tart, what was that for? I nearly lost my shoe back there and you're hurting my wrist!'

'Let us in!' he yelled, hammering again and ignoring her.

'Could've sprained my ankle…ooh,' the door was opened by a toothless old man with an egg-shaped head and impressive beard. Soundlessly he let them in to the quiet, empty bar…

'Here we are,' said Slytherin.

Rowena nodded. 'Yeah, that's apparent. Where are we, exactly? This doesn't look much like an auction.'

'No…quick, follow me.'

'But— margh!' Again he grabbed her wrist, this time to silence her more than anything, and quickly headed towards the back of the bar.

There was a door: a solitary wooden door that lead, by the looks of it, outside. Yet Rowena hadn't seen anyone outside as they approached the inn, and there wasn't room for an additional room so—

'You first,' said Salazar.

'What?'

He gave her a fleeting smirk and kicked the door open. For a second Rowena saw nothing but the muddy lane behind the inn, then Salazar pushed her firmly by the shoulders and she stumbled through the darkness…

Immediately she felt heavy eyes upon her. She looked around, picked herself off the floor and mumbled, 'Oh…hello…?'

With a slight "blob" noise, Salazar appeared beside her, sprawled across the floor. He stood up and brushed the dust from his trousers and, as if offering some kind of explanation, said:

'Hm, I think it's better to run at it than jump through…I mean, there's more chance you'll run into someone but at least you won't land on the floor, which is usually quite painful.'

Rowena said, '…Huh?'

'At least we got here in time; couple of minutes later and the entrance would be sealed for the night, and it's no fun trying to jump through a sealed entrance, believe me.'

Rowena snapped out of it and hissed, 'Why the hell did you push me?'

'I just explained!'

'It hurt!'

'Sorry!'

She turned away from him and re-examined the room. It was a lot to take in…starting with the ceiling, which was covered by a strange tent or banner of some sort, the room was both high and very wide, providing ample room for the hundred or so people inside.

There were rows of stalls, like an over-crowded marketplace, and far, far ahead of her she could make out a stage of some kind. Shadowed figures of different shapes and sizes swarmed around the stalls, no longer paying either of them any attention but picking up and observing the strange objects at the booths.

The smell was…colourful. Mud and ale and smoke and…livestock? There was a lot of conversation with occasional shouts and sudden blasts of colour on the horizon that Rowena found vaguely worrying.

'Come on then, Ravenclaw,' said Salazar, grinning at her sadistically, 'since you wanted to be here so much, you can chose where we go first.'

'Er,' she said, stepping off in one direction and quickly coming to a halt. She looked around. Things crawled in jars; shrunken heads blinked. Shadows hissed and groaned. She looked back to Salazar imploringly and said, 'You know, now I think about it it's actually an incredibly masculine hairstyle, the ponytail.'

Salazar sighed and walked ahead of her. Rowena stayed very close. A quiet mutter followed them.

Apparently either unaware of this or ignoring it, Slytherin picked up a potion bottle from a table and examined it. 'Hm, this looks shabbily done,' he commented.

Rowena shuddered. Something in the bottle oozed and quivered. 'Yeah, Salazar, it's lovely. This doesn't seem like the place to buy school supplies…'

'There's some good stuff here, as well.'

'Really?' She flinched as something ran its fingers through her hair, but knew better than to complain about it. 'Let's just look for those then, shall we?'

'Yeah. How d'you fancy a bleeding stone?'

'Er, what's one of those?'

'It's a stone that bleeds.'

'Oh. No thanks.'

'Sure? Could make a nice paperweight.'

'No, thanks.'

A gruff voice from behind the table said, 'Y'can use it t'crush y'r enemy's skulls into a fine powder.'

Salazar nodded approvingly and turned to Rowena. 'Hear that, Ravenclaw? A fine powder. Wouldn't that make a nice gift?'

She giggled despite herself. 'No thanks. I find that a plank of wood with a nail through the end works just as well.'

Salazar sighed and shook his head, replacing the stone and mumbling to the stall owner, 'I don't know, women are so hard to impress these days. No one appreciates a fine powder of skulls anymore…'

The voice grunted as they moved on. The contents of the booths seemed to run on the same lines: magical, ancient, could kill you very quickly. An occasional squawk and hiss suggested this extended past inanimate objects and onto very strange animals she didn't like to think about.

''Lo, Slytherin.'

Salazar stopped and wheeled around. Rowena collided with his chest, said "oof" and also turned around to see a tall, greasy-looking fellow, dressed in a fine suit that struggled to cover all the flesh that encased him. He was…young, probably; certainly not much older than the Founders, but something about his voice and shy mannerisms made him look younger. He inclined his head slightly and looked at them through raised, piggy eyes.

'Oh, hello again Marley,' said Salazar, sounding less than ecstatic to meet him but shaking his hand anyway. Rowena, caught between them and unsure what to do, just waved politely.

Marley looked at her. 'Oh,' he said, still talking to Slytherin, 'who is this?'

Slytherin didn't say anything, but nudged her in the back.

'Ouch, I'm Rowena Ravenclaw,' she smiled as he shook her hand, definitely holding on for longer than was really necessary.

'Indeed? I am, ah-ha, delighted to meet you Miss Ravenclaw. It is not often we see females here, ah-ha.'

Rowena was beginning to suspect he didn't often see females anywhere.

Salazar explained, 'Marley Hagrid is the son of one of my father's friends. I've bought a few things from him over the years. You might have heard of the Ravenclaws?' As he spoke she could feel several other ears tuning in and out and defensively gravitated closer towards Slytherin.

'Ah-ha, yes, the Ravenclaws. I believe the family had a Seer and a rather large fortune, ah-ha, sadly squandered by the eldest son after the parents deaths, ah-ha.'

Rowena tensed slightly. 'Yeah,' she mumbled, with forced nonchalance, 'that's the one.'

'Ah-ha, such an attractive family, it would seem, ah-ha, ah-ha.'

'Er…ah-ha.'

'Ah-ha,' agreed Salazar. It was contagious. 'Well, we're just looking around for supplies, Hagrid, so maybe we'll see you around somewhere—'

'How is, ah-ha, Gryffindor?'

'Same as always.'

'Ah-ha.'

'Ah-ha. Yeah. Well, see you, Marley—'

'Do you have anything in mind, ah-ha, to be purchased today?'

'Just looking really. Better start the search now, actually, since we're running a bit late and—'

'Ah-ha, indeed, farewell Slytherin. Farewell, Lady Ravenclaw.' She reluctantly offered her hand, which kissed before departing into the crowd.

As soon as he was out of earshot she rubbed the hand on her dress and said, 'Eugh, he was greasy, eugh, eugh…'

'You're telling me. Told you this wasn't the place for a woman, didn't I?'

'Well when you said that, I didn't imagine I'd be flirted with! Eugh, he has a very soggy mouth. Do they sell soap here, do you think?'

'For some reason, Ravenclaw…I don't think so, no. Would you mind your own business?' he demanded, addressing a crowd of staring shadows nearby.

Grudgingly, the shadows scattered and the volume around them rose slightly. Rowena nodded her head approvingly. 'Good boy, Sally.'

He rolled his eyes slightly, then guided her carefully through the crowd towards a nearby stall. As he did, he said, 'You probably shouldn't call me that here. It could cause a few ugly questions.'

'"Ugly" being the operative word,' she added, as yellow eyes watched them pass.

Around them, the aura was very…careful. Everyone was determined not to stand on anyone else's toes, for fear that someone would stand on their face. Very careful, dark and heavy—

'Stay here a second will you, Ro?'

- _Did he just call me "Ro"?_

Temporarily speechless, she had no opportunity to object as Salazar strode away through the crowd. Once he was out of sight, she snapped her gaping jaw shut and mumbled, 'Alright…Sal?'

Well, that was a first.

Not a…a weird first, was it? Well, "Ro"…that was her nickname, wasn't it…it was what Helga would call her and her parents once called her and her brother would call her and, er, all the people she bonded with. Yeah, it was a name that stemmed from the act of bondage. _Bonding!_

Er…

Well, obviously Salazar didn't know about the connotations of that particular nickname, so it was alright for him to call her by it. He wouldn't see it the same way everyone else did: an affectionate, friendly name. No; it had merely slipped out, casually.

Strangely.

But not really.

But, er…

Goddamn, a few months ago she would have killed him for saying that!

She sighed irritably at the mental track she'd hopped aboard and leant against the stall he'd abandoned her by. It seemed to be empty, other than a dirty brass candlestick and an old leathery hat, and since no one was stood behind it she doubted anyone would object to her presence.

The hat rested on a sheet of paper with some writing on it. First checking to see she wasn't being watched, she read it to herself. It said:

JS – 2 sickles

KH – 4 sickles

NS – 5 sickles

TO – 8 sickles

RK – 9 sickles 3 knuts

LJ – 11 sickles

MH – 13 sickles

Rowena realised she was staring at a bidding form of some kind. Write down your bid, and whoever goes highest wins? Ingenious, until you reached the point when two people bid the same amount and had to undertake the battle-to-the-death thing.

Good Lord. Had Salazar ever done that? It wasn't unlikely. Had he won? Oh, of course, Rowena, that's the most stupid thing you've said in a good few minutes. So he'd…killed people? Well, he might have done…

'_Woman_.'

Rowena looked up sharply.

_'Woman_,' said the voice again, in a rough, Glaswegian whisper.

Rowena said, 'Er, hello?' She slipped from the edge of the stall and looked behind it, but no one seemed to be there.

'Woman,' said the voice, 'get me some _aaaale_.'

She peered around behind the table to make sure she wasn't talking to a drunken midget.

'Some ale?' she repeated.

'Ale, whores, wimmin!'

'Ales and whores and women? Oh my,' she added, for the benefit of her own humour.

_'Wimmin!'_

Look at me, said the voice of Rowena's conscience, in a secret, criminal auction, arguing with a disembodied Glaswegian spirit about the correct pronunciation of "women".

'Can I help you?' she ventured.

'Pour some ale in me tip!'

'In your _what?_'

_'Aaaaale!'_

Rowena looked again stall she'd been sat on. Ah. _Look at me_, said the voice of Rowena's conscience_, in a secret, criminal auction, arguing with a Glaswegian hat about the correct pronunciation of "women"._

She said, 'Oh. I see you are a…er, a hat.'

'Aye,' said the hat, 'but I still wants me some whores.'

'Ah? Ah, OK.' Rowena nodded to herself and took a discreet step backwards.

'And some ale,' the hat added.

'Right. Er…I'm not sure I'll be able to get you any of these things—'

'Wimmin!'

'Yeah, you see, there aren't any other women here—'

'Ale!'

'I don't think—'

'Whores!'

'I, er, wouldn't think you could enjoy whores, what with you being a…er…hat.'

'Try me!'

The mind reeled. Rowena glanced around her surroundings and noticed how few people were around that area of the auction. They all appeared to be gravitating towards the front of the room, congregating around the stage and occasionally jeering. Where the hell was Salazar when he was needed?

The hat said, 'Are ye confused, woman?'

Mainly to herself, she replied, 'Oh, as always.'

'I'm a sorting hat.'

'Ah?'

'If ye put me on, I'll tell ye a few things.'

Rowena glanced around her again before sidling closer towards the stall. 'Things?' she repeated, 'Like what?'

'I don't know, woman, whatever ye wants.'

She looked around again. No sign of Slytherin life…

'Well, could you tell me—?'

'Put me on first woman!'

Gingerly, Rowena did so. It felt itchy on her scalp— oh, Lord only knew the kind of things that were in the lining— but fit snugly enough. Perhaps…too snugly…

'Er,' she said, 'now what?'

_'Get me some aaaale!'_

She removed the hat. At least, she _tried _to remove the hat, but the hat really didn't want to let go. Instead in cried:

'AAAALE!'

* * *

'Alright,' said Salazar, 'six knuts.'

Xavier Malfoy turned to the hook-nosed man with an impressive scar. 'Six knuts?' he repeated.

Mr Hook Nose considered this. 'Seven,' he said eventually.

Malfoy turned to Salazar and said, 'Seven knuts?'

'Six.'

'Six?' said Malfoy.

'Seven!' said Hook Nose.

'Seven?' said Malfoy.

'Not seven, six!' said Salazar.

'He still says six.'

'I know he says six,' Mr Hook Nose spat at Xavier, 'I'm stood right here!'

Xavier delicately wiped the spit from the corner of his eye and sneered. There was nothing about the situation worth sneering about, but when one reviewed life in general and compared it to the life of Mr Nose, one simply had to sneer.

Salazar, stood across the table from Xavier and Mr Nose, raised an eyebrow and also sneered. It was very important that the Slytherins win the battle of casual arrogance and general bastardry.

He said, 'Malfoy, are you really going to let a man who spits when he speaks get his own way?'

Mr Nose fumed.

'I think you know,' said Xavier, in a bored drawl that outshone Salazar's, 'that it really isn't up to me, Slytherin. If this man is petty enough to argue over the sake of one knut, there's only one way to resolve it.'

'Bare knuckle battle to the death?' said Salazar, 'Ah, well, if you insist.'

Mr Nose looked between them both and growled. 'You're a scrawny little thing!' he barked at Salazar. 'I could kill you without trying!'

'You're a muggle, aren't you?'

'No wands allowed!'

_'Some _wizards don't need a wand to perform the killing curse, as I believe you know. Six knuts?'

Mr Nose threw the spell book across the table while Salazar, with pronounced care, counted out seven knuts and handed them to Xavier, who took one and passed the rest on. Mr Nose stormed away.

'Pleasant chap,' said Xavier, dryly.

'Certainly thick-skulled.' They left the table near the foot of the stage, where a crowd was massing in anticipation of the night's first fight. Salazar concentrated particularly on lurking and slouching to the best of his ability. Take that for casual snobbery, Malfoy…

'A shame,' said Malfoy, as they navigated around the stalls uninterestedly, 'I was hoping you'd entertain the masses by killing him.'

'Yeah, well, I prefer not to, if at all possible.'

'Indeed? I hope you're not becoming pathetic, Slytherin.'

'Of course not.'

'We'll see.'

'What does that mean?'

Xavier shrugged, his permanent sneer still apparent, and said, 'It's not every night you turn up here with a pretty young girl, Slytherin.'

'Who? Ravenclaw?'

'Ravenclaw?' he echoed, thoughtfully tapping his chin. 'The Ravenclaws with the Seer in the family?'

'Yeah.'

'How many heirs?'

'Two; Rowena and a brother.'

'Ah. No money left, I presume?'

'None at all.'

'Not trying to dig her way into the Slytherin fortune, I hope?'

Salazar threw him a look that was partially disgusted, but mainly non-committal. It was a bad idea to insult your financier, especially ones you were directly related to. 'Certainly not,' he replied, as yet more people rushed past them and in the direction of the fight now breaking out, 'there's nothing of that sort happening.'

'Ah,' he sneered, '"just good friends"?'

He struggled to remain evil, casual and cool. 'No.'

'Bedfellows?'

'Really, Malfoy…'

'Just friends?'

'Just nothing,' he replied coolly, 'we just know each other. If you'll excuse me…' He left the side of bloody Malfoy and headed back towards the stall he'd left Rowena by.

Malfoy watched him leave, a calculating expression on his face. Salazar Slytherin, "just nothing" with a Ravenclaw? Well, that could certainly be interesting…very entertaining, if he managed the situation perfectly. Definitely a valid form of...what was it? _Leverage._

Very interesting indeed.


	12. Chapter 12: The Malfoy Manner

**Chapter 12: The Malfoy Manner**

'_Ale!'_

Salazar nodded slowly. 'Ye-es,' he said, thoughtfully, 'I can see how that would be a slight problem for you, Ravenclaw.'

Rowena gesticulated wildly and made a noise like an indignant rhinoceros.

Salazar smirked. 'Do that again, it's funny.'

'"Slight problem"?' she repeated, slapping him on the arm. 'Just a "_slight problem_"? Salazar, there is a talking hat _on my head_ and it won't let go!'

'_Whores!_'

'Be quiet, you!' she added angrily.

Salazar resumed his contemplation, scratched his chin and circled her a few times, mumbling under his breath.

'Well?' she demanded, as he prodded the hat's brim experimentally.

'Well,' he said, 'it's definitely stuck on tight.'

'I _know _that,' she growled, 'now make it _un_-stuck.'

He scratched his chin again. 'How much do you like having hair?'

Rowena squealed and tugged the hat further over her face, then quickly let go as it growled at her.

'Even better plan, Ravenclaw. Blind panic. Very productive.'

'Help!'

'_Wimmin!_'

'Be quiet!'

'I don't suppose,' he said, lifting the brim to meet her eyes, 'you've tried asking it to let go?'

'Yes,' she mumbled, despondently, 'but he doesn't really respond to reason. Just ale and women, apparently.'

'Whores!'

'Oh yes, and whores.'

'Alright, let me try…' Salazar cleared his throat and, addressing the hat, said, 'Look, Mr Hat – or may I call you Hat? Alright, I'll take that guttural grunt as a "yes". What do you do to earn a living, pray tell?'

The hat said, 'Ale, wimmin and whores! Don't make me ask again, laddy-boy!'

'Look, if you want to negotiate you're going to have to expand your vocabulary, alright?'

Rowena, feeling increasingly stupid as Salazar argued with someone around the region of her forehead, folded her arms and nodded occasionally at curious passer-bys.

'_Ale!_'

'Yes! For God's sake, I _understand_ that you like ale!'

'Whores!'

'Those too! Let me hazard a guess: do you like wimmin as well?'

'Wimmin!'

'Oh, really? I'd never have thought it! Isn't there anything else you like?'

'…Strawberries…'

Salazar halted. He looked at the hat skeptically. 'Strawberries?'

'Strawberries and ale!'

'Alright, there's a chance we can work on that one. Rowena,' he ducked his head down so he was at her level, carefully out of range of Mr Hat, 'don't suppose you have any strawberries about your person, do you?'

Rowena rolled her eyes several times. 'Why, yes, Salazar,' she growled, 'right next to the raspberry bush I keep in my left shoe.'

'There's no need for sarcasm, lady.' He vanished over the hat's brim again, and Rowena found herself once again staring at his throat. 'Alright,' he announced, 'it seems we don't have any strawberries. Anything else you like?'

The hat was silent for a while, before declaring: 'Pipes.'

'Pipes? Uh…musical pipes?'

'_Smoking pipes!_'

'Right, hang on. Rowena, do you have a—?'

'No.'

'Right, no pipes, sorry. Anything else?'

'Kittens!'

'Kittens?'

'Aye!'

'Rowena—?'

'_Do I look like the sort of person who carries kittens about their person?_'

'She says she doesn't have any kittens, sorry.'

The hat slumped. 'Always wanted a little kitten called Twinkle. A kitten of my own.'

'Anything else that tickles your fancy?'

'Whores! Ale! Wimmin!'

'Oh, back to those three, are we?'

'Aye!'

Salazar sighed and patted his pockets. 'Don't suppose you respond to money, do you?'

'Aye!'

'You do?'

'Aye! Got to buy me, laddy!'

Salazar retrieved the sheet of paper from the table and read the bids. 'I see…if I bid for you, will you let go of Rowena's head?'

'Nay! If ye wins me, ye can have her back with me!'

'Ah. Right.'

'And then I want some ale!'

'Shut up. Rowena,' once again he peered under the hat's brim to meet her fuming glare, 'how much money do you have on you?'

She shrugged. 'About three sickles. Why?'

'Oh, fan-bloody-tastic.' Briefly, he outlined the situation to her. When Rowena began to flap her arms in panic, he outlined the situation a bit more thoroughly. This did very little to help.

'I don't want to be bought!' she squeaked, clinging to his sleeve. 'I'm not a hat accessory, I'm a human being!'

He looked at her hand. She quickly let go of his sleeve.

'I've got ten sickles, anyway,' he said, straightening his tunic. 'Ten and a knut, luckily for you. That beats MH's bid by one solitary knut.'

She sighed in relief. 'You're going to buy me? Salazar, that's so kind of you!'

He cringed. 'Never before in human history has anyone spoken those words unironically.'

'They do sound a bit weird,' Rowena agreed, pensively, 'I feel like I should probably slap you or something, just to neutralise it.'

'Well, don't. We haven't won yet.' He thought about it a second. 'Actually, just a little slap.'

Rowena obliged.

'OK, that's better. Back to normal. Right.'

* * *

Rowena frowned in concentration as Salazar explained the Rules Of The Bid. From where the stood in the crowd, close to the stage at the back of the tent, she had a clear view of what occurred:

The bidding sheets would be read by one of three officials sat behind a table. If no objections to the winning bid could be heard, the buyer would hand over his money, in the presence of an official, to the man who brought the item to be auctioned.

If there was an objection, the two potential buyers could either argue "diplomatically" in the presence of an official, or they could do the rational thing and step into the huge chalk circle by the side of the stage. There they would fight, using either magic or fists, depending on the wizard to muggle ratio…

Rowena very much hoped the next fight would be magic-based. The amount of blood produced from a round of fisticuffs was a stunning sight to behold, and she could now behold it all over her pinafore.

Mr Hat appeared to feel differently, and took great delight in yelling "Kick 'im in the dangly bits! Ale!" at inopportune moments. Luckily, he wasn't the only spectator to do so, so Rowena never attracted too much attention to herself. Salazar watched the fights without wincing, but never jeered or cheered, save for an occasional polite clap as the final punch was thrown.

'Alright,' said Rowena, as the jeering continued around them, 'who are the officials?'

Salazar tore his eyes away from the fight. 'The one on the far left is Cedric Balfour. He's the pub's owner, or something. The one in the middle is Heinnes Hepplewhite, who organises each event, and the one on the right is Xavier Malfoy.' With that he turned his attention back to the fight.

As a loud smack sounded from the ring, Rowena quickly diverted her attention to the officials. Balfour, she noticed, was huge, burly and an odd purple colour, with veins that stood to attention more than seemed strictly healthy. His eyes were large and bulged from his head, and didn't even flicker as head after head was smashed into the ground nearby.

Hepplewhite, on the other hand, was tall and thin, with a long, pointed nose and dignified eyebrows. He had a distinctly polished look about him, and spent most of his time organising his paperwork chronologically. Then there was Malfoy…

He was tall and finely-figured: slim, with broad shoulders and a polite waist. His hair was blonde and simply cut, never snatching attention from his elegant cheekbones. Yet despite it all, he wasn't quite..._attractive_. He was impressive, perhaps; like a marble bust or an ice sculpture, and he gave off the same amout of warmth. He made Rowena shudder.

Not necessarily in a _bad_ way, but...

His grin, rare as it was, was crooked and teasing. He looked ready to snarl and bat a lazy paw in her direction. His eyes were grey and sharp. As these thoughts occured to Rowena, she realised both the grin and the eyes were actually directed right at her.

'What was that, Rowena?' Salazar asked, not looking away from the fight.

'Er…"eep!", Salazar.'

'Oh, right. Ah, he gave in.' A chorus of groans echoed throughout the tent as the smaller man staggered from the ring, shaking his bloodied head in resignation. Rowena dared look up in time to see Malfoy smirk and divert his attention elsewhere.

'Er,' said Rowena, feeling the redness creep over her skin, 'when are they reading ours out?'

'Shouldn't be long now. Are you OK? You look like you're having a hot flush.'

'I'm fine,' she squeaked. 'It's just warm in here, that's all.'

'Oh really?' he replied, tuning out of what she was saying – to her relief – and instead watching the bidding unfold on the stage. 'Take your clothes off or something.'

'What?'

'Alright, don't. Whatever. Shush.'

The only noise now came from the crowd as they muttered and spoke to each other, occasionally jostling Rowena and exhaling smoke at her. This was less of a problem than expected, as the hat merely sucked it from the air before it hit her, and tended to snarl at anyone who came too close. Every so often, from the stage, came the voice of an official asking whether there were any higher bids.

'Aha,' said Salazar at last, 'this is us.'

Mr Hepplewhite raised the bidding sheet from in front of him and declared that item number 146, "Sorting Hat" (and the young female affixed), would now be sold to the highest bidder, Mr SS. Were there any higher bids?

Salazar gestured for Rowena to follow him as he made his way onto the stage, which she obediently did. Watched by the jeering audience, she struggled to remain close to Salazar while at the same time far away from the seated figure of Xavier Malfoy. Her attempt failed.

'Ravenclaw, is it?' said a bored drawl from the region of her hip. With Slytherin deep in conversation with Hepplewhite, and fighting to repress her blush, she met his hard grey eyes.

'Er, um, yes,' she mumbled, eloquent as ever, 'Rowena Ravenclaw. Er, you are…?'

'I'm sure you already know that, Rowena.'

'Oh yes. Um.' She shrugged. 'Just trying to be polite.'

'Ah.' He looked her up and down. 'Noble effort.'

'Erm...I'm not usually dressed like this.'

'Ah? Ah,' he chuckled, 'well, that is a relief. I was just thinking that it seemed a very unflattering dress. Very dowdy. Are you disguised as a peasant?'

'Er...oh.' The blush happened, for entirely unforseen reasons. 'Oh. Right. Yes, that's why I'm - dowdy. Yes. But I actually meant the, er, giant talking hat, actually.'

'Ah! I wondered who'd be the first to mention the hat.' His lips curled into an amused grin. 'I don't suppose Slytherin coaxed you into putting it on, did he?'

Rowena glanced at Salazar, and back to Malfoy. 'Salazar? No, of course he didn't. Why would—?'

'No matter. It just can't hurt to check, can it?'

'Um...can it?'

He sat forwards and, in an exaggerated whisper, asked, 'You don't _trust _him, do you?'

Any reply she was prepared to offer was interrupted by Salazar as he raised his voice to demand: 'What? What do you mean? No one can have put in another offer since – Marley Hagrid? No, I don't—'

'What's wrong?' Rowena asked, relieved for the excuse to exit further conversation with Malfoy.

The look of panic on Salazar's face as he turned to her was at once very worrying and strangely warming. 'Do you have any more money, Ravenclaw?'

'No, I thought there was—'

'Malfoy, couldn't you lend—?'

'Now, Slytherin, you know that's not my way.'

'What's wrong?' Rowena demanded. 'Don't we have enough money, or something?'

The shadow of Marley Hagrid suddenly eclipsed them, a sickly smile on his pink face.

With a despondent sigh, Salazar explained, 'Hagrid's out-bid us.'

* * *

Helga listened. Godric spoke.

He said, 'There are things about Slytherin - there are very _bad _things about Slytherin. About _all_ the Slytherins, they all - they all do such horrible things. But I can't-' He broke off, and exhaled a short, frustrated sigh. He began again: 'I can't tell you everything.'

'That's OK,' said Helga, 'you don't have to.'

Finally he said: 'There are things about Slytherin that I am very unaware of, Helga, and there are things about him that I'm all-too aware of. And…' his forehead crumpled as he struggled with the effort of articulation. Slowly he concluded, 'And the things I am…unaware of are, I fear, even worse than the things I _do _know all about. I couldn't tell you what I don't know, or even the ideas, because - well, I pray I'm very incorrect. And, and I can't tell you what I _do _know, because it's all very…vile. You mightn't guess it from just looking, but there are horrible things about him that I don't want to even say. He's done horrible things. He'll _do _horrible things. He's...he's horrible,' he concluded, with an awkward laugh.

'It's OK,' said Helga, with a gentle nod, 'I understand. I'm glad you feel secure enough to talk to me about it.' She left a respectful silence. She said, 'Can we go back to kissing now?'

* * *

'Grab his goulies, ye pansy! Gwan!'

'Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! No one understands a word you're saying!'

'Ro, I think you should maybe stop shouting at the hat now—'

'Don't you _dare _call me Ro, you fish-headed tit!'

'Don't call me a fish-headed tit, you scabby pox-lobster!'

'What does that even mean?'

'What did _yours _even mean?'

'It _MEANS_ you're a _TIT_ with the_ HEAD_ of a _FISH!_'

Malfoy cleared his throat. Rowena let go of Salazar's collar.

He said, 'Are you quite finished?'

'Yeah,' Salazar mumbled eventually, 'we were just...planning my fight strategy. You know.'

Xavier smiled. 'How very optimistic of you. I'll leave you to plan. But you need to be in the circle within a few minutes, William; you're slowing the auction down, and the audience is rather baying for your blood.' He stalked away.

Rowena prodded Salazar in the chest. 'Why did he call you William?'

'_Ouch_. Why did you poke me?'

She prodded him again.

'_Ouch_. The family call me by my middle name.'

'You're _related _to him?'

'Of course I am, I'm related to everybody. I'm related to _you_, incredibly distantly.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, face crumpling, 'that's distressing.' She pulled it back together. She prodded him again, harder. 'Why did you have to lie to me, Slytherin?'

'Er,' said Salazar, 'when? I probably have a list somewhere—'

'You told me you didn't fight people here! You utter tit!'

The jeering of the crowd rose in volume as Hagrid, still grinning in his malicious, sickly manner, entered the ring. He tapped his fingers together in a calculating way, eyes fixed on Rowena and Salazar as they continued to argue over the din.

'Well,' said Salazar, 'if I'd told you the truth you would've just gone psychotic, quite frankly. No one needs that at twelve o'clock in the morning, do they?'

'Well, tough! Tough! Because I'm going psychotic on you now, instead! Why did you—_why?_ After all I've put up with from you! Everything I've over-looked, and you couldn't even tell me the truth on this _one_ occasion!'

'Oh, does it really matter?' he asked, tapping his wand experimentally against the side of his hand as the crowd cheered. 'I can't—'

'It's the principle of the thing!' she interrupted him, as the hat joined in with the cries of the audience. 'And, and why are they all so bloody pleased to see you fighting, anyway? It's giving me a damn migraine!'

'_You're_ giving me a damn migraine, Ravenclaw. Tone it down a bit, would you?'

'_I—!_'

'People just don't like me,' he explained, shrugging, 'and, for very different reasons, they don't like Hagrid, either. Now there's a good chance one of us will die, and it will be an interesting thing to behold, I'm sure.'

Rowena looked between Salazar, Hagrid and the audience, partly confused but mainly bloody angry. 'Oh, you'd — you'd better not get killed, Salazar!'

He shrugged. 'Well, since you insist…'

The anger intensified. 'You complete bastard!' she shrieked, thumping his shoulder rather forcefully, to minimal effect. 'Why can't you at least pretend to care about anything? Can't you just stop trying to be cool and sarcastic for two damn minutes?'

Salazar did neither, and the combination of his silence and smirk did nothing but embarrass her.

After a few moments of humiliated, silent rage on her part, she muttered, 'You utter—'

'I _do _care,' he said quietly; a little uncertainly. He finished: 'I care about _some _things.'

She stalled, mid-curse. For a second or so, something in her chest felt decidedly off – too far right to be her heart, and too far north to be her stomach. Something burrowed in the warm space between her lungs.

After a few seconds she managed to say, '...OK.'

The moment passed. Salazar shrugged. 'I suppose I'd better think up some actual tactics. Not exactly productive, this arguing business.'

'It's...building you up into a pre-battle frenzy,' Rowena improvised, weakly.

'Let's just get out of here, shall we? Get out of here and get back to normal.' He flexed his fingers and spun his wand a couple of times. He gave her a very brief, very curious look, and said, 'It's disgusting, the way you blush.'

Rowena put a hand to her cheek. 'Sorry?' she offered, insincerely. 'I'm fairly sure it's a natural reaction to things like heat, embarrassment and anxiety, but-'

'No,' he said, pocketing his wand, 'I mean whenever Malfoy looks at you.'

'Mr Slytherin!' Hepplewhite called, from the stage. 'If you don't enter the ring in the next ten seconds you will lose the bid!'

Before Rowena could form a response, he'd already taken to the stage.

Her mind spun. She felt odd and cold; as if she had been suddenly exposed to a high wind. She couldn't quite say what caused it.

Under her breath, and far out of earshot, she said, 'Why should my blushing matter?'

She looked at Salazar. He didn't look back.

The strange feeling between her lungs plummeted into her stomach. _Get out of here and get back to normal. _Yes, please.

* * *

'Mmf - I mean it,' said Godric, 'he's a very - mmf - a very dangerous man to know-'

'That's very nice,' said Helga, somewhere around his collar bone, 'very interesting. Shush now.'

* * *

Rowena leant against the side of the stage, forcing herself to stay relaxed. It took effort. From where she stood, she had a perfect view of the audience as they cheered and jeered, complete with flying spittle and pounding fists. Occasional bark-like laughs were obvious above the noise, as were grunts of pain as the jostling became too violent. They were certainly eager to watch the fight, weren't they…

No eyes were on her, at least. All attention was fixed on either Hagrid or Slytherin as they stood still, facing each other. The eagerness was obvious in Hagrid's beady eyes, as he passed his wand from hand to hand and grinned like a pig.

Salazar had his back to her, but from what she could see he was completely still, wand held loosely in his right hand and head cocked slightly to one side, almost tiredly. She could bet he had his eyebrows raised, and his eyes would be staring slightly over Hagrid's shoulder as if he was the least interesting thing in the world.

'And how's the face that launched a thousand ships?' asked a quiet voice in her ear.

Rowena didn't look away from the ring. 'Sorry?'

'Helen of Troy,' Malfoy explained, 'it's a literary reference, dear. Though, technically, you've only launched two wands, and they're happy taking their time with that, aren't they?'

'Yeah.'

'Hm.' He made himself comfortable, leaning next to her. 'Then again, I think Marley Hagrid was more impressed by the fact that you're not a man than anything to do with your face, which isn't anything spectacular by any means. If you don't mind me saying so.' He sneered and folded his arms. 'How long have you been friends with Mr Slytherin, Rowena?'

'Malfoy, could—'

'Shame it had to all end tonight, really, though I daresay you've just saved time for the future. And you might want to consider that a warning.'

Rowena shrugged.

'Silly little girl, aren't you?'

'Obnoxious little loser, aren't you?'

'Now, now, Ravenclaw. Where the hell did that come from?' He nodded to another official, who entered the ring. Rowena, frowning slightly as she tried to decipher the situation, watched as Balfour gathered Slytherin and Hagrid and instructed them something, to which they both appeared to reluctantly conceed. They then threw their wands aside, causing the crowd to cheer loudly.

Rowena turned to Malfoy and demanded, 'What's going on? Why did they just—?'

'No wands allowed,' he grinned, 'it'll last longer.'

The stance of Slytherin lost a lot of certainty. Hagrid was an enormous man, and Slytherin was by no means a physical fighter.

'Of course,' Malfoy whispered, as Hepplewhite began to lower the flag to commence the fight, 'it's always more entertaining to, as we say, _tip the odds _in just one man's favour…'

Rowena's eyes shot open. 'Hagrid's got a wand!'

The tent was filled with flashing light.


	13. Chapter 13: Shut Up Shut Up

**Chapter 13: Shut Up Shut Up**

It wasn't the most dignified fight-for-freedom, all told.

As far as great escapes went, theirs was probably ranked in the bottom three.

In the history of heroic show-downs, it wasn't even a footnote.

When they finally stopped running - somewhere halfway up the Hogwarts Hill, leaving Hogsmeade safely behind them - Salazar said, 'By Odin's battered codpiece, Ravenclaw, what the hell was that?'

Rowena wheezed for breath and massaged her stitch. She waited for the feeling to come back to her legs and, when it didn't, collapsed against a tree trunk.

Salazar nudged her thigh with his foot, significantly less exhausted by their run. 'Are you dying? What are you doing? Stop it.' He nudged her a little harder. 'Breathe, you idiot.'

'Echh,' Rowena managed, fanning herself desperately, 'eeeechhh. Ouch.'

'Oh, good.' He dropped to the floor near her. 'Keep that up. It can only improve your conversations.'

'I...hate...you,' she managed, shaking her head, 'so...very...much.'

Salazar laughed. Rowena glared.

'What?' he said. 'It was fun.' He laughed again. 'You look like a beetroot.'

A few minutes passed. Rowena stopped feeling like she was about to die. She said, 'You idiot. He could've killed you. He could have actually killed you!'

'Easily,' Salazar agreed, 'but he didn't.'

'I just...I just wrestled a grown man to the floor!'

'You did,' said Salazar, with a nod, 'it was very impressive.'

'I bit his stomach!'

'That was a bit weird.'

'I - I -' She stopped. She shook her head. She said, 'I just saved your bloody life!'

That sobered him up. 'Pish,' he said, waving a hand, 'please. You just got in my way, if anything.'

'Piss off, I helped!'

'You just Jelly Legs Jinxed everything in sight! It was embarrassing!' He sniffed. 'You're just lucky nobody knows the counter-curse.'

'_You're _just lucky I don't rip your damn ears off.'

In the dim light, she managed to catch his smirk. The wind whipped across both of their faces, but neither seemed in any hurry to reach the safety of the castle on the horizon. Instead, they both studied it for a while. The light that poured through thin windows looked like a rain of faraway stars.

'What's that guy's problem, anyway,' muttered Rowena, who was still a little delirious.

'Who?'

'Malfoy.'

Salazar didn't look at her, but waved a dismissive hand. 'He's just an idiot. An idiot of the megalomaniac variety. Just - _ignore_ anything he ever says to you, alright?'

Rowena nodded. 'OK.'

'I mean it. Every stupid, contradictory, goading, ridiculous thing he ever says. If you ever see him again. Which you will,' he added, wearily, 'he's like a human chlamydia.'

Rowena said, 'Who's Chlamydia?'

'Oh, Ravenclaw. You are in no way ready for this conversation, so let's not have it.' He stood up, offered a hand to Rowena, and pulled her to her feet. 'He just likes toying with people. That's what he does.'

'Who? Chlamydia?'

Salazar sighed. 'I think you've had enough excitement for one day, Ravenclaw. Let's get you back home before you realise how much of an idiot you are.'

* * *

Rowena wasn't immediately aware of the reason she'd woken up with a sharp jolt, before realising her best friend had prodded her in the jaw with a broom handle.

She mumbled, 'Uh…fizzlewhistle?' and pulled the blankets further over her head.

Helga exhaled a deep breath. 'Thank God, Ro! I thought you were dead!'

'Muh,' said Rowena.

'Then you started snoring, and I thought you'd perhaps fainted. But then I couldn't remember if people snored when they were unconscious or if that was when they were in a coma or if it was neither, because I can definitely remember my uncle Ken drinking until he fainted but we didn't know if he was unconscious or just asleep when we heard snoring from the stable, poor Mildred got the shock of her life, and I had sex with Godric a few times, but I thought that in any case poking you with a broom would—'

Rowena sat up suddenly and demanded, 'What did you just say?'

'Um, Mildred was the donkey. Poor Mildred, she could do nothing but hobble for at least a week—'

'After that part!'

'Um, the broom?'

'Before then!'

'Uncle Ken?'

'You and Godric!'

Helga beamed.

'You and _Godric?'_

'That's right.'

'You – you scarlet woman!'

Helga giggled as Rowena continued to gawp at her. 'Oh, Ro, you look like you're going cross-eyed.'

'I can't...words,' she managed, shaking her head, 'they're not...happening. What? _What? _How?'

'Um...the normal way?' Helga suggested. 'Sort of...' She smushed her hands together for a while. 'A bit like that.'

'Oh gods.'

Helga winced. 'Are you happy for me?'

Rowena opened and closed her mouth a few times. She said, 'Are you his girlfriend now?'

'Um...yep.'

'Oh gods.'

'Ro,' said Helga, again, 'are you _happy_ for me?'

Rowena sat up, grabbed her friend by the shoulders, and said very seriously: 'Helga, if he does not treat you with all the due sensitivity and sexual tenderness of a gazelle, I will personally re-arrange all of his atoms.'

'Um,' said Helga, 'OK, you're scaring me now.'

'_Tenderness_,' Rowena whispered. '_Gazelle_.'

'OK.'

'_Atoms_.'

* * *

Salazar kicked a chair into position at the head of one of the Great Hall's tables. He fell into the seat, yawned, stretched, and made a start on his nutritious breakfast: garden peas, a bread roll and a peppermint sponge cake, why not? Hell, he was living the highlife.

A lowlife living the highlife. Ha. Look at the irony on that.

He yawned again. Bloody Ravenclaw and her bloody everything.

No, shut up.

Ridiculous woman-shaped piece of thing with her eyes and arms and things. Godammit. Stop it.

Back to normal. Got to get back to normal, now. Enough of all the stupid, with the...stuff and stuff. Enough of that. All of it. This was ridiculous; absolutely ridiculous.

Bloody Ravenclaw.

Godric walked into the hall and, noticing Salazar, froze. He regarded him coldly and said, 'Slytherin.'

Salazar said, 'Morning, grumpy knickers,' and took a bite of his bread roll.

Godric sat at the opposite end of the table, hair vibrantly red and muscles gleaming in the morning light.

For a while, neither spoke. Then Salazar said, 'If I wanted to see naked male nipples in a morning, Gryffindor, I'd go out and pay for it. Put your shirt on, would you, and do exercises at night like everyone else does.'

'Exercise?' he repeated, curtly. 'I don't believe you've ever undertaken one in your life. And what can be done at night?'

Slytherin gave him an exaggerated wink in response. 'Walked right into that one, Godders.'

'You're astoundingly idiotic this morning, Slytherin. Any particular reason for it?'

'Just your presence, I suppose,' he muttered, 'lighting up my day with the reflection of your bloody biceps.'

'May I propose a question, Slytherin?'

'So soon in our relationship? Gee Godders, you've got to give a girl time to think these things through-'

'Where did you drag Miss Ravenclaw away to last night?'

Salazar sighed angrily. 'May I propose a question to _you_, Godders? Why are Hufflepuff's knickers hanging from the chandelier?'

* * *

Rowena's bedroom had always been an over-crowded space, with drawers and wardrobes, mirrors, chairs, curtains and a large bed leaving only a scanty amount of space in the middle of the room.

She'd always liked the room, before. But now it all seemed so horribly tainted by Helga's...anecdotes.

'Alright,' she said slowly, eyes fixed on a rather fetching square of her patchwork blanket, 'I'm not sure I needed to know _all _of those details, Helly.'

Helga nodded. 'Sorry. I got a bit carried away.'

'Quite alright, Helly. I just need to do some dusting, that's all.' Under her breath she added, 'Everything needs cleaning...'

'Um, so,' Helga said, seeking a rapid change of conversation, 'where were you last night? Because, um, I don't know if you knew this, but, um, Slytherin was out as well and, um…'

Rowena began to edge further under her blankets.

'Um, you weren't anywhere with him, were you?'

_Say no, say no, say no, say no, nay so. Nay so?_

'Yes,' she admitted, 'we, er, went to an auc— well, we went to this shop and, er, bought some things for the school.'

'Oh. At midnight, Ro?'

'It's the only time the queues are short, Helly.'

'Oh. Anything - interesting happen?'

'Not really, Helly. Pretty boring, really…you know, expensive stuff, cheap stuff, a few books…you know.'

'Oh. Um…' For a moment or so she "um"ed, locked in mental deliberation over whether to pursue the point further. Rowena made no attempts to encourage her. Eventually she said, 'Oh, alright then. Are you coming downstairs for lunch?'

'Yeah, just give me a minute to get changed.'

Helga obediently left the room, closing the door with some hesitation behind her. Rowena sank back under her blankets.

Good Lord, that boy was such an idiot! What the hell was she going to do? She seemed to be the only bloody founder who couldn't manage personal and public issues: Godric managed to interview teachers and fill out forms while juggling his own issues as well as, apparently, Helga. Teachers! She hadn't even spared them a thought. Forms had never crossed her mind.

Helga could successfully amble through life and work, dealing with one issue at a time in whatever detail was necessary until everything was perfectly fine. She'd decorated her common room already…common room! If Rowena's students didn't like rocks and cushions, they were in for a lot of disappointment.

As for Slytherin…well, Lord only knew how he managed these things. Apparently by visiting secret auctions at the dead of night. Dammit all.

Bloody Salazar. The first time she'd ever met him, if memory served, he'd thrown a potato at her. Three days later she threw one back, and the tradition had sort of continued since then. He'd provoke, she'd think about it a while, then retaliate. Eventually words had replaced vegetables, and now even they were dwindling away…

Rowena sighed and stared out of the open window. It was quite warm, for a Scottish August, and her tower offered a perfect view of the spot where forest, lake and land met. It probably wasn't the most scenic of views, being mainly shadowy and wet, but it was picturesque enough. On the horizon, pewter mountains stood against a pale blue sky, while clouds passed slowly overhead. All very dramatic; perhaps now was time for a poem?

_"As I stand, lonely as a cloud,_

_Thinking 'O bugger me',_

_My life is like a daffodil –_

_Big and yellow and sort of…"_

She sighed. The poetry sort of ruined the moment.

Bloody Salazar.

_Stop thinking about Salazar!_

Dammit, though! What was good about him, anyway? Nothing. He was offensive, judgemental, antisocial, snobby, cynical, sarcastic and bigheaded. He was — he was anti-muggleborn! He called them "mudbloods", remember?

_Remember, Rowena? He said mudblood the same time he saved you from being trampled to death and you drank together and ended up in his bedroom. Remember that, Rowena?_

There were rumours, though. Things people said about the Slytherin family, and what they did to the peasants and the muggles. Alright, they probably weren't all true, but there's never smoke without fire, is there?

But…

Yes, but…

Well, he did say "mudblood". But, er, maybe that was just racist horseplay?

Rowena frowned, tore her gaze away from the lake and sighed. "Racist horseplay"? Good Lord, what was she on?

But what did any of it matter? He was just the man behind the money, remember? Another name on the land-lease. Where did she even get the energy to hate him? Where did she even get the energy to care at all?

_I __**do **__care. I care about some things..._

Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up!

_It's disgusting, the way you blush. Whenever Malfoy looks at you..._

It wasn't jealousy. It _wasn't_ jealousy. Don't even entertain that thought for a minute, that he might have been jealous. Because he _wasn't_. He wouldn't be. He doesn't care a thing about you.

_I __**do**__ care. I care about some things..._

Shut up shut up shut up!

It was then that Helga Hufflepuff tentatively re-entered the room to say, 'Ro, you _do _remember the school's opening in two day's time, don't you? – Oh, Gods, sit down! Go on, deep breaths…'


	14. Chapter 14: Flashback Magic

**Chapter 14: Flashback Magic **

Bathed in the cool shade of a lurching old inn, Xavier Malfoy sprawled professionally in a comfortable chair someone else had provided. He observed the intricacies of the cracked walls and the plants that spewed out of them, and decided quite certainly that having the place removed would be a sensible idea.

He smirked, for the benefit of his own health, and checked he wasn't about to freckle. A gentle breeze shuffled the branches of the trees around the village, causing a lone pigeon to say "fruffruffurffruff" until he pointed his wand towards it idly.

With style, he reclined in the chair and watched the grass hold it's breath around him. Above him, he glimpsed an owl swoop past in the direction of the houses. Unless he was very much mistaken, he'd seen the same bird make a similar trip around forty times already.

This was confirmed as the owl flew into a thatched roof and appeared to have an asthma attack before taking flight once more, back in the direction of the castle on the hill.

Hm.

Five minutes later the bird re-appeared, this time with what appeared to be a matted old sack in its talons, which it drove to the ground and began to peck furiously, not far from Xavier.

The sack said, 'Ach, I could take ye, birdie! Ye's nothing! Just needs me a sword and ye's mine, ye big hen! Ale!'

Xavier winced at the poor grammar, then again at the sound of approaching footsteps. He moved his chair back a metre or so until he was sure he couldn't be heard by—

'Ro, I don't think I'm the best person to bring along for this kind of mission—'

'It's either this or a convent, Helly. You take your pick.'

'But I'm not really good with animals—'

'As long as you're off Godric for two minutes I honestly couldn't care, Helly. Anyway, Samuel likes you. Use your natural powers of negotiation!'

'With an owl, Ro? What was it doing with that hat, anyway?'

'Lord knows. I think they were tormenting each other, and Samuel got the upper hand on account of actually having limbs.'

'Yes, but the hat has so much charisma.'

'Be quiet, scarlet lady. Here they are—'

With a raised eyebrow and a sneer, again for his benefit more than anyone else's, he watched with an air of vague amusement as Ravenclaw and the blonde girl ran in circles, threw pieces of ham, used several expletives and received bites from both the owl and the hat until they were finally coaxed apart.

'Go on,' said Rowena, waving her hands at the owl desperately, 'shoo. You've got letters to deliver.' With a final venomous look, the owl reluctantly flew back towards the castle.

Helga, holding the hat delicately by the tip as it writhed and struggled, asked, 'What are we going to do with him?'

_'Let me go, ye whores!_'

'Hat!' Rowena shouted, 'What've I told you about calling us whores?'

'Ale!'

She waved her hand dismissively. 'Oh, forget it. We might as well just throw him in with Finkles and let him use it as bedding.'

'Finkles?' said Helga. 'He'd be more likely to mate with it, to be honest. That's all he does these days – and no comments about like owl, like owner, before you start!'

Rowena grinned guiltily.

_'Ale!'_

'Shut up,' said Rowena. To Helga she said, 'He hasn't had this much exercise in ages, it'll do him good. Anyway, there's only a few more letters left for him to deliver, then tomorrow….' She paused dramatically, and declared: 'It is time.'

'Tomorrow _evening _is time,' Helga corrected her, 'and we still need to remind the teachers they start the day after, don't forget.'

'Oh, yeah. Well, Godric can take care of that; I have things to do.'

'Oh really? What do you need to do?'

_Deep breathing exercises; speech preparation; last minute touches to my dress robes; finish designing the common room; double-checking we have everything we could possibly need in the entire castle; ensuring I can pronounce all the names of the students; check all the registers; check the accounts one last time for good luck…_

Eventually she mumbled, 'Oh, bugger me, _loads_. I'm going to have to lure Salazar out of the dungeon at some point as well, just to make sure he's not dead. I haven't seen him all day…'

As they set off back up the hill, Helga replied, 'Thank God for small miracles.'

And Rowena said, 'Er. Yeah.'

And Xavier sneered, and wished there was someone around to see it.

00000

'Move it, Godders,' Salazar yawned, setting himself down in the seat beside his cousin. Godric grudgingly obeyed, scraping his chair across the stone floor to give Slytherin his beloved leg room. He was twelve, and Salazar Slytherin was the Enemy.

Salazar yawned again, hauled his school bag onto the aged wooden desk with a thud, and began rifling through his books.

'I don't have it,' he declared eventually.

'Oh dear,' said Godric, unsympathetically.

'Lend me yours.'

'No.'

'Why?'

'You should've brought your own.'

Salazar's lips curled into a tight, thin smile, and behind it lurked a thousand and one barbed insults, ready to give him a curt slap about the nose. Godric awaited them bravely, his brown eyes holding the steady gaze of Salazar's green.

Eventually, Salazar just looked away. More interesting fish in the sea, no doubt. He picked up a dry quill and began intently engraving his initials into the desk.

Godric looked around the room in genuine interest. Scattered around the place, perched on the edges of desks or sometimes properly in their seats, other twelve-year-olds talked amongst themselves while awaiting the arrival of Professor Harper, the potions master. Fumes erupted from the cupboard in the corner but went ignored, billowing out of the high tower window and tingeing the white clouds pink.

Kneeling on a desk, right by the window, was Rowena Ravenclaw. She had her arms folded in front of her, perched on the windowsill, and her head rested on her hands, bobbing out of the open window. Stood by her, feet firmly on the ground and head nowhere near the great outdoors, was Helga Hufflepuff, who caught his gaze and squeaked before quickly looking away.

What an odd girl.

'Muh,' said Slytherin.

Godric dragged his eyes away and paid attention to his cousin once more. 'Yes?'

'I'm bored.'

'You're always bored.'

'No shit, Sherlock.'

Godric looked away again. Although he and Salazar were related, this was certainly against Godric's will. All he wanted from life was to do his best and help others, defend his family and die in battle with a Viking. All Slytherin wanted was to make life as uncomfortable and unpleasant for everyone else as possible and, no doubt, live a thousand years.

A loud "_OW!_" from the other side of the room confirmed this theory. Salazar smirked, pushed his hair from his eyes and pretended to mind his own business.

'That wasn't very nice,' Godric informed him, angrily.

Salazar glanced at him, smirked, and looked away again.

Rowena clambered down from the desk by the window and made her way over, Helga teetering uncertainly behind her. With hands on hips, she stood in front of Salazar and glared.

Salazar edged his chair back very subtly and met her gaze, the smirk wavering for only a second. Godric looked between the two of them for a moment, before standing up and bowing at the girls.

Rowena gave him a sideways look. 'Pardon?'

Godric sat down again.

Helga had turned a fascinating shade of magenta.

'Slytherin,' Rowena growled, returning her attention to him.

He continued to smirk and folded his arms.

'Why did you throw that at Elvina? She's very simple, you know. She thought the sky was falling.'

He rocked on the back legs of his chair. 'Queen of logic, that girl, isn't she? Hell's own idiot.'

He couldn't be sure, but for half a second or so, Godric was fairly sure she smiled. In _amusement_. However he later decided he must have imagined this, as she then threw a potato at him.

When the lesson ended, Godric asked, 'Why did Rowena Ravenclaw throw a potato at you?'

Slytherin threw him a scolding look and explained, 'Because I threw one at her first.'

Godric nodded. 'I can imagine.'

'Huh.'

'Are you going to have lunch now?'

'Not with you I'm not.' He began to walk away in the other direction, but was prevented by Godric, who grabbed hold of his arm.

'Well,' he began, 'I—'

Slytherin attempted to shake himself lose. 'Get off, you big ponce.'

He ignored him. 'I wasn't asking you to have lunch with me.'

'Who, then?'

'I don't care who. Just as long as it's not with me.'

Salazar raised an eyebrow. 'Come again, Godders?'

'I'm moving seats in potions, as well.'

Slytherin folded his arms as he was released from his cousin's grip.

'And all the other lessons as well. I don't like you.'

The smirk returned. 'Oh, really, Godders? I hadn't guessed. And you think I'm the captain of your fan club, do you?'

'I think that I'm the only person you ever speak to or sit with, and we hate each other. Think of it this way: the only person you know in this entire school only knows you because you're his cousin, and the only reason he sits with you is because you blackmail him! What does that say about you, Slytherin?'

Salazar rolled his eyes. 'Am I supposed to be soul-searching?'

'You're supposed to realise the reason you haven't got any friends.'

'I don't want any friends.'

'Goodbye, then.'

00000

Children filed into the room, chattering quietly. Small ones first – perhaps eleven or twelve years old – accompanied by parents who looked on with misty-eyes. They filled the first row of seats, swapping chairs every so often to be with friends. They looked around the hall, mumbling and gawping at the amount of drapes and ribbons on the walls and ceiling. Rowena began to wonder if she'd gone slightly overboard.

The pupils entering the hall became older and older, and the number of parents became less and less. The chairs were filled, the drapes were ogled, the chatter rose…

Rowena and Helga stood in the shadow of the doorway as the students passed. Godric shook hands with as many as possible while handing out leaflets and welcoming them to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Salazar was no where to be seen.

'They're, er, quite old, aren't they?' Helga mumbled, as a group of boys – perhaps seventeen years old – trudged by.

'Yeah, Helly. They'll the seventh years, I expect.'

'Oh my.'

Salazar appeared at the other side of Helga. 'Chill your knickers, Hufflepuff. You're older than them, remember?'

Helga mumbled something beneath her breath.

'What?'

Rowena translated, 'She's only just turned eighteen, actually. Me too.'

Salazar shrugged. 'Can't be helped. You're the boss around here, Hufflepuff!' A group of first years turned to look at them, and Helga turned red.

'Erm,' she managed.

'Show them what you're made of, Helga. Over there, preferably.' And with that, Salazar gave her a sharp nudge in the back, propelling her through the stream of students and by Godric's side.

Rowena looked at him. 'That wasn't very nice.'

Salazar smirked. 'Then why are you smiling?'

00000

Helga Hufflepuff was thirteen. Ideally at this age, she'd be, as her mother would phrase it, Coming into Her Own. Discovering her true identity. Realising her talents and blossoming into the individual she truly was.

During the summer holidays, she was half-hoping to undergo an astounding physical transformation, and return to school looking like a cross between a Greek Goddess and Tarty Aunt Helen. Unfortunately it was not to be; she looked the same as her twelve-year-old self, but with slightly longer hair.

Her best friend, Rowena Ravenclaw, yawned and sank further into her chair. She and Helga were sat in the hall, chatting over the feast that celebrated their return to school. The initial excited buzz had died down, and the bored realisation that nothing had changed over three months had begun to set in.

'Passusa sausage,' Rowena said, through a yawn and a stretch.

Helga complied and rubbed her eyes tiredly. 'What time is it, Ro?'

Rowena called the attention of a fifth year and repeated the question. 'Half-past eleven, Helly.'

'What, at night?'

'Unless we've slipped into a vortex, Helly.' She took a bite from the sausage, and added, 'Again.'

'That was an accident.'

'Yeah. That's what I said, and that's what I'm sticking to.'

'Yes. Ro?'

'Yes, Helly?'

Helga looked over her shoulder for signs of life, the lowered her voice to ask: 'Do you think my…er…?'

'Your what?'

She lowered her voice still further. 'Do you think my, er, mounds have become, er, hills yet?'

Rowena snorted. '_Hills!_'

'Shush!'

'Sorry! Sorry…but…hills! No, I'm sorry. Erm. I don't know, Helly, they might've done.' She paused to glance down her own blouse for a second. 'Do you think my molehills are any closer to becoming mountains?'

'Ro!'

Rowena erupted into laughter once more, and Helga reluctantly joined her. Five minutes later, when the people around them looked more than a trifle disconcerted and Rowena had fallen off her chair backwards three times, they finally managed to pull themselves together.

'Ooh,' said Rowena, massaging her sides, 'my rib. Ooh…'

Helga giggled. 'People are giving you funny looks now.'

'Ah, well. Bugger it!'

Helga giggled again and Rowena grinned broadly.

'Helly,' she said, absent-mindedly chopping a cold sausage in half with a carrot, 'will you still be my best friend when we're a couple of mad old ladies who can't laugh without weeing?'

'Are you trying to confess something about your level of continence?'

They both laughed again, until Rowena fell backwards and couldn't stand up again, and then they laughed even harder.

00000

'Anyway,' said Salazar, taking a step further back into the shadows and out of view of the students, 'when was it your birthday?'

Rowena also took a step back. 'The week before last. August the fourteenth, actually.'

'Oh, really?' He leant against the wall, gaze hovering somewhere in the middle-distance. 'Why didn't I know about it?'

'I never really celebrate birthdays,' she shrugged, 'it just seems a bit pointless. One more year with nothing achieved—'

'Don't brood too much, Ravenclaw. You'll turn into me.'

'Frightening thought.'

His lips curled. It wasn't really a smile – because Slytherin never really smiled – but it was as close to a smile as he ever came. It was the physical manifestation of a half-amused mind; not quite a grin or a laugh, which would mean dropping his guard, but more genuine than a sneer.

'Anyway,' he resumed, eyes flickering to her and then away again, 'you've made some achievements this year, haven't you?'

'Have I? Yes…I suppose I have, haven't I?' She joined Salazar, staring at the clusters of students that arrived fashionably late. 'You could've mentioned that before my birthday, couldn't you? I might've had a nice party.'

'No you wouldn't. It'd have been you and Hufflepuff, sat in an empty ale house staring vacantly at the ground, holding a half-inflated balloon in one hand and a home-made piece of cake in the other, humming Happy Birthday under your breath until Hufflepuff went off for a romp with lover-boy. Then you'd have to find yourself a maidservant and give each other massages, wearing nothing but—'

'Oi,' Rowena interjected, a warning finger raised, 'drop it, Barbara.'

'—your favourite pair of shoes,' he finished.

'I told you to stop talking.'

'I did. There was more to come, but there are children present.' His lips curled, and the look almost met his eyes.

Thinking aloud, Rowena said, 'I only have two pairs of shoes.'

'Really? Which ones are your favourite?'

'I'm certainly not going to fuel those thoughts, Slytherin. You'll go blind.'

00000

Slytherin narrowed his fourteen-year-old eyes in concentration. He rubbed his skull forcefully with a clean, pale hand, and grabbed at a fistful of black hair in annoyance. _Mudbloods_, he thought, _mudbloods are…_

Finally, he lowered his quill to parchment and, in a rush of inspiration, scrawled:

_10) - Finally, mudbloods are filthy because they threaten the chances of pureblood survival. If mudbloods were to continue to breed, they would eventually out-live pureblood families, and would be left with only muggles to procreate with. This would mean the magic race running out, and—_

'Slytherin?'

Salazar wheeled around, covering the letter with a school book. He stood up.

Rowena Ravenclaw squinted at him across the room, dressed in something that appeared to be a white sack. Half of her face was illuminated by the orange glow of the fire, which revealed her to be squinting at him, uncomprehendingly.

'Yes?' he demanded. 'What do you want?'

She appeared to come to her senses. 'Nothing,' she snapped, before quickly rubbing her cheek with the sleeve of the sack. She'd been crying, then? 'I thought I'd left my bag in here, that's all.'

'What, so you thought you'd have a look at half past one in the morning?'

'I thought I might as well, since I was awake, yes!'

'Well?' he demanded. 'Where did you leave it?'

'I can find it myself thanks, testicle-head.'

He didn't bother replying to her childish insult. If it was up to him, he wouldn't have to bother with her at all. The way she sashayed around in the sack they liked to call a "regulation nightdress" was annoying. The way she spoke was annoying. The way she laughed like whatever she had to laugh at was completely hilarious was annoying. He'd go so far as to say that Rowena Ravenclaw was, in fact, very annoying.

'No need to just stand there and stare, Slytherin,' she snapped, fumbling through the darkness at the other side of the common room, 'if you were a real gentleman you'd offer to help me, at least.'

He leant against his writing desk and folded his arms. 'You just said you could find it yourself.'

'Yes, but if I knew you were going to retaliate with idiotic staring I'd have said differently!'

'_Staring_, Ravenclaw?' He smiled. 'Don't flatter yourself. You're hardly worth the visual exertion.'

'Shut up.'

He smirked triumphantly, although she had her back to him. The statement was very much a lie, actually; beneath the nightgown, Rowena was clearly very much lumps and bumps and probably many other euphemisms ending with "umps". That was just like her, wasn't it? Using her female wiles to ruin his favourite insults.

'Found it yet?' he demanded.

'Oh, just ignore me! Get on with what you're doing and spare me your irritating voice, will you?'

'You're presence is distracting, as ever.'

'Then you'd better help me look, hadn't you?'

Reluctantly, he nudged a nearby chair with his foot and announced, 'It's not under here.'

'Oh, that's so very useful,' she said, witheringly, 'thanks a bunch.'

'Actually, it might be.'

'Is it?'

'I don't know.'

'Are you going to check?'

'Is Lady Summers heterosexual?'

Rowena stood to attention. _'Isn't _she?'

He grinned smugly. 'Wouldn't you like to know?'

Rowena blinked a few times and mumbled, 'Gosh, I should've known. She always seems a bit too hands-on when it comes to adjusting uniform, now I think about it…'

'It's not under here,' Slytherin repeated, bringing her back to her senses.

'Oh.' She made her way across the common room, the glow of the fire turning her temporarily orange, until she reached the place Salazar was stood. He discreetly pushed the book further over the letter with his fingertips while Rowena searched the area.

'It's here,' she declared at last, reaching under a chair for it. When she stood up again she met his eyes and frowned. 'Slytherin, have you been _crying?'_

'Don't be stupid,' he snapped, refraining from wiping his eyes as this would only confirm the fact, 'it's sweat, you idiot.'

'Oh, really? You sweat from your eyes, do you?'

'Have you done here, Ravenclaw?'

'Mercifully, yes. Goodnight,' she added, apparently by habit.

Once the footsteps had died away, and the faint creak of a bed could be heard from the girl's dormitory, Slytherin picked up his pen and continued to write:

_-lead the world into ruin._

The words on the paper showed up on the back of his left hand in rich crimson, scarring his skin for a matter of seconds before fading without a trace. He winced as his eyes began to water, and caught a muffled sob. Deep breaths…

_Your loving son,_

_Salazar._

He sighed with relief, quietly. The words on the paper dissolved, and almost immediately his reply re-appeared.

He skimmed through his luke-warm praise and regards: _You remain loyal to your word...We admire your dedication...Grammar is poor…We hope for your health…_

And at the bottom of the page was the obligatory reminder: _This was your choosing, Salazar, and nothing can be done for it. Your mother and I never wished it upon you; remember this always._

_Regards,_

_Lord and Lady Slytherin._

Salazar tore up the message and thought that free will was constantly over-rated.

00000

'There are too many students,' Rowena mumbled, frowning, 'I'm never going to remember them all.'

'Only sixty-three,' Salazar replied.

'Sixty-three what?'

'Sixty-three students. You counted them all, remember?'

'Oh…yes. Well, I'm sure I've seen more than sixty-three students coming into the hall.'

'You're imagining it.'

'No I'm not.'

'Yes you are. It's hysterical anxiety.'

'Is it?'

'Yes. Your pupils have dilated and everything.'

'Have they?'

His lips curled at her naivety. 'If you believe anything I say, Ravenclaw, there's certainly something wrong with you.'

'Oh.' As an afterthought, she added, 'Shut up,' but without much conviction.

In silence, they observed the students: Godric and Helga struggled to greet a young boy with large eyes, who wandered by wordlessly towards a seat. Behind him, a petite girl with bunches and glasses chatted to a tall blonde girl, who nodded vacantly. A stocky boy with greasy hair and his curly-haired friend seemed more interested in the girls walking behind them than the actual castle, and almost sent Helga flying when they walked into her.

Rowena took the time to examine the object of their attention, and couldn't help but mimic their gawping faces. 'Bloody hell,' she muttered, 'really, bloody hell.'

'Hm?' said Salazar.

Rowena pointed wordlessly at the girls that followed. One was slightly blob-nosed, with ginger hair and dramatic cheekbones. The other…

'I didn't think people like her _existed_,' Rowena mumbled.

Salazar raised an eyebrow. 'I've seen better faces.'

'Oh, yes,' she said, sarcastically, 'that's really where you were looking. Her face.'

'I was! Although I've seen better things below the neckline as well.'

'Salazar!'

'What?' He grinned smugly, and added, 'I thought you'd take it as a compliment.'

She elbowed him violently, but still turned that damn shade of bright red.

00000

Rowena Ravenclaw had a boyfriend. Rowena Ravenclaw had a boyfriend. Rowena Ravenclaw had…a boyfriend!

Alright, so technically she'd only exchanged twelve words with him in the two days he'd been her boyfriend, but the fact of the matter was that she had one. _So stick that up your snout, Elspeth Scratt!_

Good old, er, what's-his-face, Christopher Woodvine. They'd met in their astronomy class, and it was more or less love at first sight. He'd said, 'Can I borrow your quill?' and she'd said, 'Why, what do you need it for?' He said, 'I just need to write my name on this, I won't be two minutes.' And she grumbled, 'Fine. If you lose it you have to get me a new one, though.' He sighed, 'Yeah, yeah, alright.'

Ah, yes.

There was always the possibility she was getting slightly carried away, but if that was the case, Helga was to blame. Not only did she offer regular updates of what he was up to – he was in Helga's common room, alas – but she demanded an accurate and descriptive account of what kissing was like.

'I don't know,' Rowena said thoughtfully, while chewing her way through breakfast, 'I didn't really think about it.'

A group of acquaintances from Helga's school house – and Christopher fanciers, no doubt – gathered around in search of information.

'It was kind of…' she thought back to the experience, and finished, 'wet.'

'Wet in a good way?' asked a Christopher fancier.

'Wet in a wet way,' she replied. She was beginning to wonder why she didn't take notes. 'It was, er…it was all very brief.'

'How so?'

'Well, er—'

'Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?'

'Er—'

'What did his spit taste like?'

'Eugh!'

'Did you bang noses?'

'No. Er. I don't know, I just sort of blinked and when I opened my eyes again, his face was swooping in like a hormonal eagle. It was all very traumatic,' she added, taking another bite of her breakfast.

A Christopher fancier wrinkled her nose. 'Traumatic?'

Rowena thought she wasn't handling this situation as well as she could have done. 'Er, yes. Then he sort of…pouted.'

'Pouted?'

'Yes. Then he put his pout on my cheek.'

The Christopher-fanciers exchanged glances. 'On your _cheek?_'

'Yep.'

'For how long?'

'About two seconds.'

A stunned silence went around the group. Finally one repeated, 'Two seconds? Is that all?'

'Er…should it have been longer?'

The Christopher fanciers muttered and left. Rowena shrugged and finished her breakfast.

Now Rowena, in all her sixteen-year-old glory, sat alone in the common room, drawing smiley faces in the margins of her charms essay. Every so often someone would pass through, on their way to the dormitory or bathroom and then back again, but Rowena paid them little attention. Today, she was using her lunch hour very wisely.

_The bubblehead charm_, she wrote,_ is very nice if you want to go swimming_. She re-read the sentence, frowned and crossed it out.

'Hello, Rowena,' said a vaguely-familiar voice. She looked up to see Christopher Woodvine entering the common room, and very nearly had a spasm.

'Oh, hello Christopher,' she said, sliding up the chair so he could sit next to her, 'er, lovely day isn't it?'

He fell into the seat. She didn't want to mention it, but he was resting on her hair and it was rather painful. Oh, the sweet agony she suffered for love.

'Slytherin,' he said, staring intensely into her eyes in a manner she thought was a trifle unnecessary.

'Slytherin?' she repeated, determined to stare back just as intensely.

'Does he bother you at all, Rowena?'

'Slytherin?' she said again. 'Well, he annoys me, yes.'

'Is he your enemy?'

'Enemy?' Note to self: Stop repeating random words questioningly, regardless of how strange they are. It's not attractive. 'I wouldn't say that, no. He just…irritates me occasionally.'

'He's a vile man.'

'Vile?' Stop it! 'How so?'

'Do you know what he said to me, not ten minutes ago?'

'Dazzle me.'

'When he overheard that you were my girlfriend, he stared at me for a while.'

'Oh?'

'Then he said, "You're going out with Ravenclaw?"'

'Yes?'

'"Why?"'

'Oh.'

'And I replied that I found you attractive.'

'Ooh.'

'To which he said, "Ravenclaw?"'

Rowena had run out of reactions, so she just nodded for him to continue.

'He said, "If that's your idea of a good time". And I said, "What do you mean by that?"'

'Yes?'

'And he said, "Well, I suppose she doesn't throw potatoes at _you_", so I demanded to know if this was a euphemism, and he said, "Are you suggesting I'm accusing her of prostitution?" I said, "Yes I am!" and he thought for a while and said, "Alright then, that's a good one actually".'

Rowena blinked once or twice, then gave a short laugh. Christopher stared at her.

'Do you realise,' he asked, 'he accused you of being less than reputable?'

She pulled herself together. 'Yes, yes. That's actually quite nasty.'

'As your boyfriend, I feel I should exact some kind of punishment on your behalf.'

Rowena laughed again. 'Oh, yes? How?'

Unfortunately, Slytherin chose that moment to enter the common room. Before either he or Rowena had time to establish who the other person even was, Christopher had leapt from his seat, met Salazar midway and punched him squarely about the jaw. Rowena shrieked.

As he fell, Slytherin managed to throw his fist upwards and catch Christopher's nose. Rowena shrieked again. Somewhere in the process of falling, they'd managed to catch each other by the shoulders, and now rolled around on the floor, pummelling each other's faces. Rowena shrieked again, but refrained from jumping in to stop them.

'Look, give up, will you!' she shouted, over the thuds and insults. 'It's really rather unnecessary! Look – don't bleed there! Give up! Stop it! I'm gay!'

The fighting ceased immediately. Rowena found herself subjected to two disbelieving gazes. Feeling rather embarrassed, she mumbled, 'Well, not really, obviously. That was just to stop you fighting.'

Taking the hint, Slytherin scrambled to his feet and, nursing his jaw and bloody lip, made a hasty exit.

Rowena called after him, 'Are you alright?', but wasn't sure why she did so.

From the floor, Christopher said, 'I'm not.'

Rowena said, 'Oh, _diddums_,' and stormed off.


	15. Chapter 15: Fast Times at Hogwarts High

**Chapter 15: Fast Times at Hogwarts High**

'Bollocks,' mumbled Rowena, as she followed Godric onto the stage at the front of the hall, 'bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. This is quite literally bollocks.'

'Chill your knickers, Ravenclaw,' Salazar hissed, as they took their position, 'or at least alter your choice of lexis for a while. There are children present.'

'Bottom,' she whispered weakly.

'Much better.'

They shuffled quietly into some sort of reasonable order, with Salazar sandwiched between Rowena and Helga near the back of the stage. Sixty-three pink blobs followed their every move, and Rowena couldn't help but wonder if they would forever be remembered as "Ravenclaw of the Nervous Grin", "Hufflepuff of the Awkward Shuffle" and "Slytherin of the Half-Arsed Lean".

Gryffindor of the Proud Beam stepped forwards and began to address the crowd:

'On behalf of my fellow school founders, I would like to welcome you all to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We aim—'

Over his continued speech, Salazar muttered, 'I didn't know we were calling it that.'

Rowena, feeling every bit aware of each movement she made in front of the assembly, managed to whisper back, 'What?'

'Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Is that what it's called now?'

'I suppose.'

'Who chose that name?'

'I don't know,' she whispered, honestly, 'it might have been me, for all I know.'

To the collective horror of the other three founders, Salazar raised his voice and said, 'Oi, Godders. Who decided to call it Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?'

Godric froze, staring out at the sea of raised eyebrows. Rowena tightly closed her eyes, while Helga's jaw threatened to fall from its hinges. Salazar simply looked between them all, as if mystified by their reactions.

'It wasn't me, was it?' he asked.

'I don't think it was,' Rowena whispered back, weakly.

'Alright then.' He scratched the back of his head distractedly and, addressing Rowena, whispered, 'I'm just going to get a drink. Carry on without me,' and left the stage, watched by all sixty-three students and Helga, who pointed after him feebly. Rowena just stared straight ahead and fought the urge to sob.

'Er,' said Godric, 'er, although we sincerely hope you enjoy your time and experience here, there are strict rules that must be obeyed. A copy of these can be found on page thirteen of your booklets, although—'

* * *

'What are yours like?' Rowena asked the green face in her fireplace, while she gathered her hair into a vague kind of orderliness.

'Alright,' said the face in the fire, otherwise known as Helga Hufflepuff, 'a bit squeaky, though.'

'Squeaky?'

'Yeah, I think I got a big share of first years.'

'Just as well. I'm hardly the maternal sort.'

'Maternal?' Helga's face followed her around the room, eyes open wide, 'Are you accusing me of being maternal?'

Rowena shrugged. 'Maybe.'

'I am not playing mother to these horrible little creatures, Ro. I've already had one sick in my handbag.'

'Eugh. Close your eyes a second, I'm trying to get changed.'

Helga sighed and complied. 'I'll try and keep my eyes off you, Ro. I'll try not to cop a feel from the fire place, shall I?'

Rowena slipped a nightgown over her head and raised a questioning eyebrow. 'You're now giving me a headache with your rampant homophobia, Helly. Anyway, I only implied there was a distinct possibility of you being gay, not a rapist.'

'Sorry. I'm a bit tense.'

'I noticed,' she replied, giving her desk a half-hearted tidy while checking her reflection for sudden acne attacks, 'is something bothering you?'

Helga shook her head, causing embers to scatter across the rug. 'Not really. Just tired and worried.'

'Worried?' She turned her attention to the ashes, unintentionally rubbing them further into the fibres of the rug with a sweeping brush. 'Dammit. Why are you worried?'

'Well – sorry about that, Ro – you know, what with the school and everything. It seemed to be all going fine until Slytherin…well. You know what he did.'

Rowena winced. 'Yeah. I'm sure there was a perfectly logical explanation for acting like that.'

'Try the fact that he's a prick.'

'Helly!' Rowena giggled, giving up on the mess and resolving to just turn the rug over, 'Are you sure there's nothing else wrong? You're acting very strange.'

'I don't know,' she answered honestly, 'it might be because my knees are hurting. I am kneeling in front of a fire place with my neck thrust forward; it's a bit unnatural.'

'Sorry, Helly. I'll go in the fire next time.'

Helga turned around and back again, adding, 'If anyone walks into my chamber now, I don't know what they'll think I'm up to. What were we talking about?'

'Slytherin, I think.'

'Oh yes. Why did he do that?'

'I don't know, Helly. I think it's how he reacts to pressure.'

'What, humiliating us?'

'Mm. Yeah. Remember in fifth year, when Elspeth Scratt accused him of stealing her wand, and Professor Harper grabbed him by the hair and—'

'—Dragged him to the front of the hall?' Helga finished, smiling nostalgically. 'Oh, yes. That was hilarious.'

'Yes. Well, do you remember what happened _afterwards_?'

The smile vanished into a frown. 'Oh. Yes. He cast a spell on you to make your leg spasm every twenty seconds, didn't he?'

Rowena nodded, then laughed. 'It's all rather funny, in hindsight.'

'You weren't laughing at the time,' she reminded her, 'you were running after him with a cauldron. Very carefully, mind.'

'Anyway,' said Rowena, pulling a chair in front of the fire and making herself comfortable on it, 'it's not as if Salazar was the only thing to play up.'

'That's true. Hat nearly strangled that poor first year.'

Rowena snorted. What a memory – Godric struggling to carry the resisting Hat into the hall, while Helga accompanied him, muttering, "You can have all the ale you want, Mr Hat, just be good!"

Rowena had stood before the assembly, watched with a mixture of awe and cynicism. Every so often, she ventured, "Ha, ha?", to which very few people responded.

They placed Hat on a stool in front of the stage. Helga did the logical thing and sat on him. Then Godric declared, "As I call your names, you must make your way to the front and sit here. I will place the hat upon your head, and he will tell you as to which house you belong. I am the head of Gryffindor house; Miss Rowena the head of Ravenclaw house; Miss Helga the head of Hufflepuff house and – er – the skinny pale chap the head of Slytherin house. Got that?' he added in a low voice.

Hat said, "Mrpph."

Godric turned back to the assembly, received a list of names from an ever-anxious Rowena, and read: "Alby, Morgan!"

Morgan Alby reluctantly made her way to the front of the hall as Helga leapt hastily from the stool, encouraged by the wandering brim of Hat.

Morgan looked between the Founders and Hat in a terrified manner, and asked, "Do I have to?"

"_Yes,_" Rowena hissed, in a state of pure, suppressed rage. Morgan obeyed. The suspiciously still hat was lowered onto her ginger head…

For a few seconds, curious silence filled the hall. Morgan breathed a sigh of relief.

Then—

"Ach! 'Tis nothing but a wee child! Ye cannae send her to this place! Run, child! Run! HA, HA!"

There was a general scuffle and shocked mumble across the rows of seats as Morgan began to scream and run around the hall frantically.

"Oh, ye Gods," Rowena mumbled, wondering what Salazar would make of the spectacle. Amidst the confusion, Godric dashed after the girl, lifting every obstacle by the arms and placing them carefully aside.

Meanwhile, Hat continued to yell, "Run, wee child! They torture puppies here! Do you want to know what they made me do to a birdie? It gouged my eyes! HA, HA!"

Helga gave in, and subsided to the floor.

"Nay sunlight! Doom! They're going to sell ye to the local ale house! ALE!"

"Oh no," Rowena whimpered.

"WHORES!"

"Oh dear…"

"WIMMIN'!"

…Back in the here and now, Rowena snorted again. 'It was quite funny, Helly. You've got to admit.'

'I think I preferred it when we concussed Hat and just told everyone to pick a Founder. I really think we should stick to that system in the future, Ro.'

'On the other hand, at least Hat seems to have learnt a lot of new words. I've got a feeling he's been talking to Salazar.'

'That wouldn't surprise me.' Helga adjusted her position again. 'Have you spoken to him recently?'

'Not since the, er, "I'm going to get a drink, carry on without me" moment.'

'I bet he's left,' Helga said, decisively.

Rowena nodded and "mm"-ed. Then she sat up as her brain caught up wit her. 'Really? Do you think?'

'I do. He's not got anything here, has he?'

'Well, he's – I think – because of—' She continued to struggle with her words for a few seconds, before placing them in a rational order: 'Now we've got the success of the school practically guaranteed, I just can't think why he'd want to leave. It'd be a financial loss on his part.'

Helga nodded, reluctantly conceeding her point. 'I suppose. But there might be another reason, you know…'

'Like what?'

'Well, I don't know. Ask him.'

'I don't know where he is.'

'Don't bother, then.'

''Night, Helly.'

''Night, Ro.'

* * *

Rowena, now with a coat around her nightgown, walked calmly down the second floor corridor. If she wanted a drink, she'd make herself a drink. If she happened to come across Salazar, that was mere coincidence.

Just as it was mere coincidence she'd casually walked through every corridor in the school so far thinking that it would be a mere coincidence if she'd come across him there. Well, she may have been thirsty, but she was in no hurry.

Not that she should be in denial about wanting to speak to Salazar, of course. As a concerned and curious business partner, it was only logical that she should want to speak to him. There was really no need to make excuses for wanting to see him.

She was just really bloody thirsty, damn it all!

A door creaked, further down the corridor. She spun around, beginning, 'Sal-? Oh, er…you should be in your common room, young man.'

The young man, a sixth year from Gryffindor, grinned sheepishly. 'Sorry, madam.'

_Madam?_ 'Miss! That's Miss!'

Young Man stumbled backwards and corrected himself, 'Sorry, Miss. Sorry, Miss Ravenclaw.'

'Thank you! Now, off to your dormitory, before I impose a curfew on the whole of Gryffindor house.' He began to scuttle away, but stopped as Rowena continued, 'I'm surprised Godric let you out.'

'He didn't,' Young Man admitted, 'I told him I had to send a letter.'

'Oh dear,' Rowena mumbled. They'd targeted his weak spot: lie detection. Sweet, naïve Godric Gryffindor and his honest, trusting personality. You'd hardly believe some of the things Helga let him do to her. ARGH! Mental trap, mental trap! Back away! Stop shaking your head like that, you silly girl!

'Are you alright, Miss?' Young Man ventured, 'You look like you're having a spasm, or something—'

'I'm fine,' she said, quickly, 'I'm fine, I'm fine. Eugh. I'm not strange,' she added quickly, although the look in his eye said he believed otherwise, 'I'm, er – part-psychic.'

It wasn't untrue. It wasn't strictly true either, but he didn't have to know that.

'Really?' he asked, awestruck. 'Are any of the other teachers?'

'No,' she beamed, 'just me. Although,' she added, seriously, 'they have all accomplished many difficult tasks in their young years, fought many impossible battles and overcome dangerous and devilish enemies with stunning bravery and wit. So be good.'

'Er, alright.'

'Actually, you'd better tell me your name so I can record it. And no "Ben Dover" or any of that business, thank you.'

'Andrew Parkinson,' he admitted glumly, 'Gryffindor house, year six.'

'Thank you, Andrew. Now scram, before I hex your eyes out.'

'Alright, Miss. Are you up late patrolling the corridors, or –'

'I'm just bloody thirsty!'

Fifteen minutes later, Rowena found herself in the not-very-Great Hall. The last of the drapes sighed, sagged and vanished with a sparkle of blue flame as the spell wore off. Now it resumed life as a big, square room.

The chairs had changed position; now they lined four narrow tables that consumed most of the space in the room. A blue cloth covered the one nearest the door; a red one opposite; a yellow almost touching the head of it, and in the corner, a green one.

And at the furthest point of the green table, sat beneath a moon-struck window, was Salazar, an alabaster streak in the shadows.

For a second or so, silence. Then he said, ''Lo, Ravenclaw,' in a cheery voice that clanged against the dramatic atmosphere.

Rowena shrugged to herself. ''Lo, Slytherin. I'm just getting a drink.'

'So I see.'

'I could've just summoned myself a drink in my chamber,' she continued, 'but I worried about spilling something. Although I could've cleaned the stain away with magic, I just felt that there is a time and a place for drinking and the hall is certainly the latter. Er.'

Salazar smirked. 'I don't know if you noticed, but I didn't pursue the subject.'

'Yeah. Course.' Oh dear. Now she felt stupid. She wavered where she stood for a while, then sat down at the Ravenclaw table.

Salazar raised an eyebrow. 'Far enough away, Ravenclaw?'

'W-well,' she stammered, without quite knowing why, 'I just thought that this was more appropriate but I could always move I suppose if you wanted me to not that I need you to tell me where I'll sit but now you mention it I should probably sit at your table shouldn't I?' _Breathe, you stupid girl, breathe!_

Salazar shrugged, calmly as ever. 'If you wish, Rowena.'

…And there it was. Do you feel happy now, you idiot girl? You've proven yourself stupid, and he's taken down that annoying lexical barrier. "Rowena". You've proven yourself a "Rowena". Maybe if you catch sticks for him, he'll promote you to a "Ro".

Oh, just sit down and stop thinking, will you? You're annoying yourself.

Rowena listened to the voice in her head, and made herself reasonably comfortable in the seat opposite him.

'Well, I know why you're here,' he said. Rowena began to say, "I'm just thirsty!", but he continued: 'Come to murder me, I suppose?'

'Murder you?' she repeated, her mind reeling. Had he committed any murder-worthy offences recently? 'Oh, right - the drink thing. Yeah. Mm. Bad.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Are you alright, Ravenclaw?'

'Erm. Yes. I mean – Andrew Parkinson just called me "madam",' she mumbled (it's not really a lie! It's not really the truth, but that doesn't matter!), 'It's sent me slightly mad.'

'Ah, right. Surrounded by young children all day…' he gave an exaggerated shudder. 'At least some of them are practically our age.'

'Nine of them,' Rowena said, the memory resurfacing, 'six girls, three boys.'

'Those three boys are going to be happy.'

'True. How many do you have?'

'In Slytherin house?' He pronounced the name delicately, like someone scooping up something unpleasant from the pavement. 'Three. All girls, all close friends. I think I can still hear the giggling. And you?'

'Two girls,' she said, squinting to remember them, 'I don't think they knew each other.'

'Two with Hufflepuff and two with Godders, then?'

'As far as I can recall. Helga got two boys, I think.'

'Right.' He closed his eyes and folded his arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair. Rowena wasn't entirely sure how to take this.

'You, er, got the blonde one, didn't you?' she probed.

Slytherin shrugged, his eyes still closed. 'Which one?'

'The one I said was very pretty.'

'Oh yes. I believe your exact words were "Bloody hell, I didn't think people like her existed".'

'Alright, alright, well-remembered. Who is she?'

'Who, the blonde girl? Heather something, I think.'

'What's she like?'

'Do you want me to organise a get-together for the two of you, or something?'

'No! I'm just curious. I bet she's horrible.'

He shrugged again. 'Doesn't seem that bad, to be honest.'

Rowena's leg twitched. For a second, she felt a fifth year again – under the hex of Salazar's leg-spasm stunt. Alas, no.

'Really?'

Again he shrugged. 'Haven't really spoken to her, but yeah. I haven't really spoken to any of them yet.'

'I know she was raising her eyebrow an awful lot during the assembly,' Rowena said honestly, 'and I think she made a few sarcastic comments at us.'

'Is that so? Perfect Slytherin material.' He took a drink of his water and sat back, rocking on the back legs of his chair. 'I'm bored.'

Rowena stared at her hands. Is that so? Perfect Slytherin material. Why did she feel so suddenly dispirited? And behind that feeling was an even stronger feeling of annoyance, covering that vague pang of…of...something.

A very curious pang of something.

She stood up. 'Well, you should be bored. You must have done all those interesting things earlier while you humiliated us.' Slytherin looked up and cocked his head to one side. Rowena continued, 'I don't know about you, Slytherin, but the rest of us are trying to run a successful business and realise our dreams – we're not all playing a petty game of - of revenge and popularity!'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Forgive me, Ravenclaw, but—'

'You just need to grow up!'

Ten minutes later, she met Andrew Parkinson on the fourth floor corridor and gave him a good shove.

* * *

_Knock._

Rowena pulled the bed sheets further over her head and kept her eyes determinedly closed.

_Knock._

'I don't feel well,' she said, 'go away.'

'Oh,' said Helga, timidly. 'Um...OK. It's me, though. Helga.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, 'I know. Sorry. I just - I really don't feel well.'

'Oh. OK.' She hovered by the door for a moment. 'I just thought I'd tell you it was ten o'clock. In the morning.'

'Yeah.'

'I mean, there aren't going to be any lessons today or anything, but it might look good if you at least put in an appearance some time before noon. And the teachers are coming around this evening...'

'OK,' she said, 'OK, I'll be down later. Yeah.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'Nope.'

'OK. Well...I'm here if you need me.'

'Yeah. Thanks, Hel. Bye.'

'OK. Bye-bye.'

Rowena tried to sleep.

She soon gave up.

She emerged from her blankets, caught sight of her reflection, and sighed. It didn't look good. She smoothed down her hair and slapped the life into her face, but it didn't make much of a difference.

What _was_ this hideous thing she was feeling?

It was...it was _new_, certainly. It was the most alien emotion she'd ever experienced. Although perhaps "emotion" wasn't the right word; emotions she'd always associated with the head. This was a purely physical feeling. It landed in her chest that night at the auction, and had been burrowing deeper and deeper ever since.

It wasn't a _nice_ feeling. It wasn't anything like love. It was heavy and dark and cumbersome. It filled her up. The feeling overwhelmed her when she thought about him too much.

Yes..._him_. It was _his _bloody fault. He was making her feel sick. How was he doing that? What spell was he using?

It was a very dark feeling. Frustration and resentment and jealousy and hatred and guilt and all the rest of it. Not enough to make her miserable, but enough to trouble her.

It didn't feel like love. She'd known love - how she felt about her friends and family and silly schooltime crushes. This was...this was the _opposite _of love. Not hatred; more like love's mirror image. All the dark dregs of it.

She sighed. She got out of bed, splashed her face with cold water, and suppressed the feeling. Whenever she thought about it, the questions all rushed in, and they were too strange and difficult to untangle. No: keep washing face. Maybe eat a biscuit. Read a book, or something.

She got changed. She sat on the end of her bed. She made a noise like a deflating balloon.

Her stomach rumbled.

'Food,' she said aloud, 'breakfast. Right. Let's get on with it.'

As she opened the door, the noise came again:

_Knock._

Salazar stood there, fist still raised, interrupted mid-knock. He said, 'Oh. That was quick.'

Rowena blinked a couple of times. She felt curiously as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. 'I was - er - just about to go for breakfast.'

'Ah, right.'

The sick feeling flooded back. The words tumbled from her mouth: 'Sorry I snapped at you last night I was just feeling a bit weird but never mind just forget about it.' She coughed. 'I mean, _sorry_, alright?'

'It's fine,' he said, not looking at her. He was still stood there uncertainly, at the top of the staircase, not crossing the threshold into her room. He wavered for a moment. 'Don't worry about it.'

Rowena's stomach growled.

Salazar said, 'What was that?'

'Nothing,' she squeaked.

'Sounded like thunder-'

'Wasn't. Never mind. Hungry. Shush.' She felt herself blushing, and winced at the realisation. 'Never mind. Look, what do you want?'

'Want?' he repeated, uncertainly. He looked her briefly up and down, took half a step backwards and very nearly lost his footing on the stairs. 'Nothing,' he said, eventually, 'just - nothing. Hufflepuff said you were feeling ill.'

She nodded. 'A little bit.'

'Right. Well, get better, then.' His position on the stairs put them at an equal height. He stepped forward to amend this, but then he was suddenly far too close to her and he turned away and said, 'Forget it, I'm-'

'Sal-'

He turned back as she stepped forwards, as at that close distance their mouth just seemed to magnetise, unstoppably, together. Rowena felt his shoulders tense, and the slow, soft clashing of their lips, and for just a few short seconds she felt absolutely nothing else.

They separated. The world came crashing back down again.

'Right,' said Salazar. He cleared his throat. 'Right. There we are, then. OK.' He opened and closed his mouth for a moment. He began to raise a hand, then dropped it. 'I'll - be off, then.'

'Right,' said Rowena, unmoving.

She watched him vanish around the spiral staircase, and stood perfectly still under his footsteps had echoed away.

She raised one hand to her lips, experimentally.

She said, 'Oh...bugger.'


	16. Chapter 16: Much Ado About a Cupboard

**Chapter 16: In Which a Cupboard Plays a Major Role**

Rowena stared determinedly at the ground as she walked. Now she was fully-dressed, presentable and slightly less shell-shocked than half an hour ago, the last thing she wanted to see was that lanky, pale, smug, cynical, heartless, greasy, big-nosed rat-arse with a surprisingly artful tongue.

The stupid pillock! Why, why, _why? _Why did he have to ruin it? Now they'd have to avoid each other for ever, which would make a successful school all the more difficult to run.

On the bright side, she thought, ducking into a third-floor doorway to avoid a pair of giggling first years, at least she wouldn't be the one to go. Slytherin could quite happily live in his dungeon for the next fifty years.

There might be a slight problem at meal times, though…

Easily solved! She'd create some kind of pulley system out of drapes and ribbon, and deliver baskets of food down to him thrice daily.

Or, even better! He could choose a first-year student to act as his slave for the duration of their stay at Hogwarts. Slytherin would love that! He could create some kind of bell device, attach it to the slave's collar and let it ring whenever he needed something.

Oh, but the parents might complain…

They'd never know. We could keep him silent.

If all else fails, kill him.

Rowena banged her head against the nearest wall. She'd come up with a few bad plans over the years, but that really took the metaphorical biscuit.

Dammit. She was going to have to live with this, wasn't she?

Finally, she arrived at the hive of student activity that was the Great Hall. Eyes turned towards her, though the conversation remained constant as she budged her way through the chattering crowd in pursuit of Helga and Godric.

'Bugger off,' she mumbled, swatting her hands impatiently at a tribe of fourth years. 'And don't giggle at that,' she added to a first year, 'I expect better of you. Yes, you. Now move; I've had a bad morning.'

As she moved on, Andrew Parkinson explained sagely, 'She's part-psychic, y'see…'

'Shut up,' Rowena mumbled, though this was mainly to herself.

After a lifetime of elbowing, she finally reached Godric and Helga –

'— But really, Helga, I –'

'Oh, forget it –'

'I didn't mean it like that – '

'– Just be quiet, will you? Ro!' She turned to Rowena, who half-grinned nervously. 'I'm glad to see you're up. Lovely day isn't it? It's boiling in here though; too many students, I think. I think the seventh years are outside anyway, and some of the sixth years. Anyway, how are you?'

According to the Hufflepuff theory of conversation: To undo one line of speech, simply cover it up with as much inane babble as you dare say until everyone in range has forgotten what you said prior to aforementioned babble.

'Oh,' said Rowena, as Godric forced a smile and bowed, 'I'm fine now, thank you.' Oh, big, dirty lies. 'How are you?'

Helga and Godric both paused before mumbling, 'Fine, absolutely fine.' It seemed Rowena wasn't the only one spouting big, dirty lies, which cheered her up considerably.

Oh dear; now it was time for an awkward silence.

'Er,' said Rowena.

Helga nodded.

'Well,' she tried again, 'I think I'll go for a walk outside and make sure the seventh years aren't, er, having a big orgy, or anything. Helga?'

Helga nodded again. 'Yes, yes. I'll go with you. I'm sure you couldn't break up an orgy on your own.'

'It would be very difficult…'

Godric watched them sail off through the assembly and banged his head against the nearest wall, ignoring the curious looks he attracted from nearby students.

Thirty seconds later, he said, 'Ouch.'

* * *

It wasn't until their third silent lap of the castle grounds that Rowena said, 'Care to tell–?'

'No,' said Helga.

'OK.'

They carried on walking.

Helga said, 'Would _you _care to tell –?'

'No.'

'Right.'

'So we can just assume that—'

'Yes. Nothing's wrong.'

'At all.'

'Indeed.'

'OK.' Rowena glanced over to the gang of seventh year girls who sat by the lake. One amongst their number was actually a young, pale man with a beard. 'Oh, Gods.'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Alright.'

Bloody Slytherin.

* * *

'Ach!'

'Be quiet.'

'What ye woken me up for?'

'I need a word.'

'Tough tits!'

'Just be quiet, will you? Someone's going to hear you.'

'What do I care? Ach! He's having his whassit with me!'

'Shut up. I'm not having my way with you—'

'Ach, this is vile! Put me down! Wimmin'!'

Salazar sighed, rolled his eyes and stuffed a nearby book in Hat's mouth. 'There,' he said, 'that'll—'

'Ach!'

He sighed again and nursed his aching jaw. 'Very funny, Hat. Spitting books. Very clever.'

'Just you try it again, laddy boy! Just try it! Whores!'

'Listen, you raggedy old pervert, I'll send you off to a place with as many whores and women as you like if you'll keep your snout closed for just two seconds and listen to me. Got that?'

Hat considered the offer. True, where he now sat – atop a dusty, broken bookcase in the seventh-floor store cupboard – had its perks. It was always dark enough to suit his hangover, for one thing. And the look on those kiddie's faces, when he shouted at them as they passed! Ach, the constant pools of terrified urine were a wee bit annoying after a while, but he'd only been here a couple of days; perhaps things would soon get better for him?

Besides, as the kiddies became more used to his presence, he could become a kind of local treasure. They might sing to him outside the door. Bring him strawberries and kittens, and whores with pipes and ale. They might grow to love him.

'Hat?' Salazar ventured, one eyebrow raised questioningly, 'You're button-like eyes seem to have misted over—'

'Ach! Shut ye mouth, ye poof!' He sniffed delicately. 'I just want to be loved.'

'…Right,' Salazar said eventually, deciding the last twenty seconds were probably better off deleted from memory. 'It's very dark in here, Hat. I'll just—'

'No,' Hat interrupted quickly, shuffling towards the edge of the bookcase, 'nay, you leave that wand where it is, laddy. No one needs to see what I've drawn on that wall. Or its nipples.'

The mind reeled. 'Right, Hat. You just be quiet now, and listen to me.'

'Ooh aye?'

'Yes, aye! I know you're a sorting hat, Hat, so I want you to sort this for me:' he glanced towards the door, careful to ensure no one was at the other side, 'I need to know about...decisions.'

Hat felt this was something of an anti-climax. 'Yeh what?'

'Decisions,' he repeated, seating himself on a fallen cupboard opposite Hat, 'and how they effect things. Prophecies, and such.'

'Prophecies?'

'Yeah. Look,' he sighed, leaning forwards to explain, 'if you make a decision one day to follow a prophecy—'

'Aye?'

'—but change your mind another day, can you decide to go against the prophecy? Or has your original decision made it an inarguable fact?'

'Er…'

'Since a prophecy never prophesised that a person might chose to change their mind, does that mean you're not yet living the prophecy and can therefore chose not to? Or is it inevitable?'

Hat shuffled nervously backwards. 'Ale?' he suggested.

Salazar sighed again. 'Hat, if you don't give me a word of advice I'm going to have to pick you apart, thread by thread, until you do.'

'Ach! Laddy! Don't be hasty! Re-phrase the question at least! Whores!'

'Fine!' He punched the cupboard impatiently, and slowly said, 'If one person, let us call him Ralph-'

'Nay,' said Hat.

Salazar glared at him. 'What do you mean, nay?'

'Nay Ralph.' It wasn't physically possible for Hat to shake his head, but he twitched in a way that was a vague approximation of it. 'I dinnae like the name.'

His eyes narrowed. 'What do you suggest, then?'

Hat thought it over. He decided: 'Bootsy.'

'Bootsy?' He sighed. 'Right, Bootsy. Well, let's say Bootsy one day agreed to carry out someone else's evil wishes by destroying all the...I don't know, let's say rabbits-'

'Nay!'

'You don't like rabbits?'

'Pickles,' said Hat, firmly.

Salazar shook his head. 'Right. OK. Bootsy agreed to destroy the world's supply of pickles, bringing ruin to the—' he paused before tentatively continuing, '—the pickle sellers, once upon a time. He can still change his mind about that, can't he?'

Hat nodded. 'Aye, course he can. Though pickles are better off dead!'

'Alright. But now let us say that, when Ralph agreed to destroy all pickles and pickle sellers, he was, in fact, quite happy to do so. Therefore, someone made a _curse_ binding him to his fate, thus rendering him...sort-of...contractually obligated, as it were. Now, Bootsy hasn't yet destroyed the pickles or pickle sellers, so is he _still _able to change his mind?'

'Ach.'

'Stop saying ach, will you?'

'It's a tricky one! Curses aren't made to be broken, laddy boy.'

'Bootsy knows that. But can it happen?'

'He, er, might change some of it,' Hat said, privately wondering why Bootsy would be so concerned about the welfare of pickles, 'but it can't just be destroyed! Not without the say-so of the original curse-maker!'

'Right.' Salazar pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Right. And what if the original curse-maker has been dead for about ten years? And what if it's all bound up in prophecies and riddles and psychic visions?'

'Er…wimmin'!'

'Right.' He sighed. 'OK, then.'

* * *

Scanning the flock of people gathered in the Great Hall, several things passed through Rowena's mind. The first concerned the new banner that donned the far wall and the irony of its statement. "Welcome, Staff!" suggested that the new teachers would, in fact, be welcomed warmly into the school by their new employees. However, Rowena had effectively murdered the welcoming atmosphere around her by standing in a dark corner, arms folded, mumbling "hello it's very nice to meet you" in a dark voice whenever she was approached.

Helga, meanwhile, stood in the centre of the room with a tray of sausage-based snacks, occasionally scowling at Godric, who rushed around greeting, briefing and introducing the teachers with a forced grin.

Slytherin was nowhere to be seen.

For this reason, the second of Rowena's thoughts concerned the phrase "bloody Slytherin".

The third of her thoughts was focused on the staff themselves – a handful of baffled old men, two old women who refused to leave each other's sides, and four or five who couldn't have been much older than Rowena herself. Still inarguably _older_, though. Good Gods, what had she let herself in for?

And why wasn't Slytherin there?

She supposed this was some kind of divine punishment for attempting to befriend a Slytherin. Not that she'd even attempted it, of course. Not that they were actually _friends_, now she came to think about it – a friend was someone you'd entrust with your life, and Slytherin certainly didn't fall under that description! He was just an enemy who, for the sake of success and ambition, she'd been forced to peacefully co-exist with.

Honestly, officer.

The thing with the lips and the tongues had, obviously, come about because of the, er…the amount of, er…and the…things…

Why _had _that happened, actually? Cold, hard logic had served her well for eighteen years, and she'd be damned if it was going to let her down now! Think, Ravenclaw, think!

'Excuse me, are—'

'I don't know, I'll think of something—'

'Pardon?'

'Er…oh,' Rowena snapped out of it in time to realise the voice didn't belong to her sub-conscience, but rather a greatly confused member of staff. 'Oh,' she tried again, 'er, hello? Pardon?' She shrugged helplessly. Perhaps now would be a good time to pretend to be Danish?

_Silence, brain!_

The man agreed, 'Er. Are you a member of staff?'

'Sort of. I'm, er, Rowena Ravenclaw. Head mistress,' she added.

For years, Rowena had hoped the mention of her name would invoke an impressed reaction. That evening, her dream was realised.

'Bloody Hell,' he muttered.

Rowena beamed. 'Thank you. And you are?'

'Anatole Amery,' he replied, attempting to extend a hand while bowing, and consequently hitting himself in the face, 'I'll be teaching Defence against the Dark Arts.'

Anatole Amery was perhaps half an inch shorter than Rowena, but certainly less than ten years older. Something about his muscular, clumsy appearance suggested a less sincere version of Godric, this time with untidy brown hair and eyes.

She asked, 'Has Godric spoken to you yet?'

'Oh, yes,' he replied, nervously daring a glance in his direction, 'yes, very much so. For ten minutes, in fact. The same few lines,' he added, 'over and over again, while shaking my hand. Vigorously.'

Rowena winced. 'Ah, yes. I think something may be distracting him this evening.'

The something in question, at the other side of the hall, forced a cocktail sausage into the hands of an elderly woman with more violence than what was really necessary.

'If you don't mind me saying so,' Anatole said, 'the three of you seem slightly – er – preoccupied this evening.'

'You could say that, yes. Three of us are preoccupied and the other is nowhere to be seen.'

'There's another one?'

A voice in Rowena's ear – one so familiar it made her twitch – said, 'Damn right there is. Move over, shortarse, I need a word.'

Anatole looked slightly injured as he smiled and complied, nodding his goodbyes and moving away. Salazar took his place in front of her.

After an uncomfortable pause, during which Rowena gathered up the courage to look him in the eye, she finally declared, 'That was very insensitive, Slytherin. He's a member of staff, you know.'

Salazar waved a hand dismissively. 'So?'

'Well, you're supposed to be polite—'

'Who says?'

She sighed wearily, forgetting all the anxiety over seeing him again and replacing it with that old feeling of mild annoyance and disapproval. The feeling of her lips against his already felt like a long-lost memory, or the dregs of a dream. 'Nobody _says_, Slytherin. You just _are_.'

'Oh dear.' He travelled to the nearest corner and leant against the wall. Rowena, resenting her lack of willpower, followed him. 'It's his own fault.'

'How?'

'He shouldn't have got in my way.'

'He wasn't in your way!'

'Ooh. Now you're defending him,' he said, with a sneer.

Knowing the statement was inappropriate as soon as she began to say it, Rowena folded her arms and muttered, 'At least I'm not jealous.'

Up went the eyebrows. 'Jealous?'

Rowena didn't reply.

'Why would I be jealous, exactly?'

Damn him. Damn his face. Damn his eyes. Damn his mouth.

'Slytherin, I don't think this is the appropriate time or place.'

He shrugged. 'Fine. Third floor potions lab at eleven o'clock, then?' And with that he walked away, leaving Rowena gawping after him.

'N-no!' she managed to stammer, as he left her field of vision, 'No, I think not! I'm not going to just turn up wherever you say at whatever hour you please, you know! I'm—' She sighed. 'Dammit.'

* * *

And so, at eleven o'clock that night, Rowena Ravenclaw, the wise, ambitious and commanding Founder, shuffled into an empty potions classroom and declared: 'Bugger, bugger, bugger! Damn Salazar bloody Slytherin and his damn…self! Bugger!' before punching a table and sitting down in the darkness huffily.

Against all her better judgements, there she was. A flickering strip of outside light illuminated the room, revealing the enormous lack of any other life. Bloody Slytherin; she certainly wasn't going to wait any more than five minutes for him! Well, ten perhaps – but certainly less than fifteen!

She sighed despairingly. In just a few hours, Hogwarts would come to life. And where was she? Sat alone in an empty classroom waiting for the phantom snogger to make an appearance.

It wasn't as if it was a particularly _bad_ kiss, but Slytherin was a bad person and his lips were guilty by connection. It wasn't as if she…well, _liked _him. In any way. At all. But even if she _did _– which she certainly didn't! – he was far too much up his own arse to respond with anything but cynicism and a few sarcastic comments. He didn't even like _her_, so –

Rowena's eyes shot fully open. _Oh God_, she thought, horrified, _I've become Salazar Slytherin's tongue puppet!_

The arsey bastard! The nerve! He lures people into a state of confused co-existence and then sticks his tongue in their mouth! He –

'Surely you can at least let me explain—'

'No, I can't! Don't you understand what "quiet time" means, Godric?'

_Crap!_

With all the grace of a stuffed goose, Rowena launched herself from the table and onto her hands and knees, shuffled off to the nearest cabinet –

'I understand, but I really think—'

- which was locked –

'_I don't want to talk to you right now!_'

She dashed to the other side of the room and hurled herself into a cupboard, then held the door closed from the inside and –

'Well, Ravenclaw, I must say this is getting all-too familiar.'

'Argh!'

The cupboard was small, dark and dusty, and made all the more cramped by the presence of…

'Are you going to close the door, or what?'

…which was frankly _ridiculous!_

Rowena stared at him. He really had to be in such close proximity again? So unavoidable? Did God really hate her this much? Of course, she could always jump out of the cupboard, avoid the confrontation and hope for the best, but…

'Close the _door_, will you?'

She obediently did so, and subsided down the cupboard wall with a groan.

Salazar whispered, 'Leg room! Move it or lose it,' so she adjusted herself accordingly. There she sat: Rowena Ravenclaw, the wisest of the Founders, playing a game of three-dimensional twister inside an old cupboard, with Salazar Slytherin practically stood on her ankles in an attempt to maintain his balance.

Only bad things could come of this.

'Salazar,' she began, 'I'm a bit –'

He hissed a "shush" in her direction as Helga and Godric's squabbling grew louder and louder as they approached the room. Rowena gave a resigned sigh and glanced up at Slytherin as he tried his best to maintain his current pose – which, unintelligibly, involved one foot between Rowena's knees and the other by her elbow, and at least one body part in contact with all four walls.

The squabbling faded away. Salazar and Rowena were once again left alone in a confined, uncomfortable storage space.

He finally diverted his attention to her and, in the most inappropriately cheerful and comfortable tones imaginable, said, 'What ho, Ravenclaw. You appear to be staring at my crotch.'

'I am _not _staring at your crotch!' she hissed back, much to his amusement.

'Really? It's rather dark down there; you could be looking anywhere—'

'I think I'd know if I were staring at your crotch!'

'Why? Been looking, have you?'

'No! I –' And how had it come to be that Salazar Slytherin, with whom she had recently shared a tentative, delicious, lip-based moment, was now the man accusing her of gazing at his privates within the confines of a cupboard?

'Alright,' he said, 'I'll believe you, this once.' Both his voice and expression, she saw, as she dared glance upwards again, were strained with the effort of balancing. If he should collapse, she'd undoubtedly end up with a thigh in her mouth and in need of urgent medical attention, and that would be very difficult to explain.

'Well, thank you,' she replied, as sarcastically as her position allowed, 'but what are you doing here?'

'What does it look like I'm doing here? Other than receiving the old eye-up from yourself—'

'I am _not_—!'

'I'm hiding, of course.'

'You were supposed to meet me five minutes ago,' she muttered, "accidentally" elbowing him in the calf. Saying "five minutes" sounded a lot less suspicious than the precise time, which was eight minutes and twenty seconds at last look.

'Ouch. I was late, what can I say?'

'Oh, so you decided to fly in via cupboard?'

'I ran in just ahead of Hufflepuff and Godders,' he replied calmly. 'I _did _look for you, but at that precise moment you were in the midst of hurling yourself to the ground and crawling around on all fours.'

She didn't reply, but swore many times mentally.

'You alright down there?' he added, adjusting the position of his arms above his head.

Unable to fathom whether this was sarcasm or not, she just shrugged and said, 'Well, this is all very nice, but I think we should probably get out now.'

'Oh! But the night is young. Let's start a fire and crack open the champagne, I've left it chilling in my trouser pocket—'

'Come on! I'm boiling. You must be sweating up there—'

'—And if that isn't a sordid come-on, I don't know what is—'

'—Salazar! Open the door, _please!_'

'I can't,' he replied, with a shrug, 'it's locked.'

'Locked?'

'Yes,' he replied, with the same level of calmness as before, 'it locked when you closed the door.'

'But—'

'Just use your wand, woman. I didn't bring mine.'

Silence.

'Ravenclaw, you did bring a wand, didn't you?'

'Slytherin, I didn't imagine I'd get stuck in a cupboard tonight!'

He sighed wearily. '_Why? _You should know that whenever we're together, your chances of getting locked in a cupboard immediately double!'

'Bugger! You just stood on my dress!'

'Oh, _diddums_! My arms are killing me, trying to balance above your head! I am _not _an umbrella!'

'Oh, just…shush! Shush!' She took a deep breath and paused. 'Now. We're going to have to keep quiet, or someone's going to hear and this is going to take some explaining.'

'Pfft. What's an innocent crouch in the cupboard, between friends?'

'Oh, be quiet,' she mumbled distractedly, trying the door. 'Hm.'

'Hm?'

'It's stuck.'

'Really, Sherlock?'

'Shush.'

'At least stand up,' he demanded, voice becoming increasingly strained, 'if we're both at ninety degrees, I should be able to put my arms down and probably not fall on your head.'

'Uh,' she said, uncertainly. Standing up would mean a certain unavoidable amount of body contact. _Rubbing_, if she had to be precise. And a strong possibility of concussion.

'In your own time,' he muttered.

'Alright, alright, just…raise your chin up, or I'm going to bang into it. Right…'

Dear, dear – she never _was _very good at athletics. Still, moving carefully, with her shoulders backed against the wall and her knees at unnatural angles, she began her shaky descent upwards, until—

'For the sake of my vital organs, Ravenclaw, do _not _move that knee any higher. Oh Gods,' he added, through a gasp, 'my back bloody hurts. Hurry up!'

Time for a quick shuffle, and a certain amount of limb re-arrangement.

'Hurry up!'

'Be a man, Slytherin—'

'Only if you move that knee!'

'Oh, I'm—' awkward moment of silence, as a certain amount of chest-based friction occurred, '—ouch, move your arm—'

'—Trying—'

'—On three—'

'—_Three!'_

The cupboard teetered and groaned uncertainly for a few seconds, threatening collapse, until it finally stilled. There was a joint sigh of relief.

Now Rowena's only problem was the small issue of Salazar's smirk, and the fact that it was in perfect alignment with her forehead and mere centimetres away. In fact, if she stuck her tongue out far enough, she'd probably make contact with his jugular.

Oh, bother.

'Salazar,' she said carefully, pulling her head back as far as possible, 'I realise this may not be the most ideal time or place, but we need to talk about…things.'

Salazar said, 'Is this conversation going to lead to sex?'

'No!'

'Oh, alright. I'll keep my trousers on, then.'


	17. Chapter 17: Snake, Titwitch, Cupboard

**Chapter 17: The Snake, The Tit-Witch and The Cupboard**

Heather Bettany was blonde and petite, with dark eyebrows and coloured ribbons plaited into her hair. Everything, from the superior grey eyes to the expensive shoes, reeked of self-righteous perfection and, not to mince words, an undeniable aura of pure, unadulterated, puppy-kicking evil.

However, she was also extremely attractive. This had worked in her favour for seventeen years, and she wasn't about to shelve the trait in favour of amiability.

'She's obviously some rare kind of idiot,' she declared casually, to her captive audience: Jasmine King, a ginger-haired girl with an upturned nose and high cheekbones, and Magdalena Marsh, a girl with black hair and stunned eyebrows.

'Yeah,' Magdalena agreed, 'she's really…_stupid_.'

Heather rolled her eyes. 'It must be difficult for you, stretching your imagination to such extremes so often.'

'Yeah…'

The dampness of the dungeon walls gave the dormitory a very unusual smell, and it was by no means pleasant. To combat the problem, the Slytherin first years had been hastily thrown out and tactfully nudged in the direction of the common room's sofa.

'She fancies Professor What's-his-mush,' Jasmine said, through a yawn.

'Slytherin?'

'That's the one.'

Heather shrugged – Lord only knew how she managed to _shrug_ evilly – and said, 'Who cares? He wouldn't touch her with a bargepole.'

* * *

'Pfft – your hair's in my mouth!'

'Get it out!'

'I can't move my arms!'

'Spit it out! Oh – but don't spit!'

'Stop moving your hair!'

'I can't, it's attached to my head!'

'Stop moving your head!'

'But then I'll eat your shoulder!'

'_Argh_—'

'Told you.'

'Fine; stay at that angle. Right. Hm.' Salazar sighed. 'Alright, now we know that attempting to move is a bad idea and should be avoided at all costs in the future.'

'Agreed,' said Rowena, to his shoulder.

Speaking to her forehead, he continued, 'Now, I do believe you were in the midst of propositioning me.'

'I wasn't propositioning you! I was saying that, er…' At least she was spared the indignity of blushing, as long as their eyes were clearly separated by his chin. Time to plunge on: 'I was saying that we should talk about…er…'

He waited. 'Yes?'

'…Things.'

'Very well. Let's talk about the fine workmanship of this old cupboard. Oak, do you think?'

'Salazar—'

'Definitely more sturdy than pine. Could be some kind of willow-enforced frame, although—'

_'Slytherin_—'

'It's definitely aging a bit. On its last legs, I'd say. Yes?'

'You know what I mean,' she muttered.

He shrugged, and in doing so injured her nose. 'Whoops, sorry.'

'Ouch!'

'You're not going to bleed on this shirt, are you?'

'No.'

'Good. Are you trying to cop a feel?'

'No!'

'Sure?'

'Yes! I'm trying to rub my nose, you…vagrant! Stop it! Stop laughing in my hair!'

_'Vagrant?_ Is that the best you could come up with?'

'Shut up! My vocabulary's a bit exhausted today—'

'Once upon a time you could insult me for hours on end—'

'Yes, but things have _clearly _changed since then!'

The laughter halted, a shade guiltily. 'Ah.'

Rowena shuffled uncomfortably, as much as space would allow. 'Yeah. Well. If you could stop trying to break my face and attempt to keep on topic, I would rather like to discuss…_that_. Please.'

Although clearly still unwilling to discuss events, Rowena had to marvel at how well he was facing the confrontation. Perhaps because of the unavoidability of it all, or the understanding that the atmosphere would take a turn for the worse if he didn't reply. Rowena wanted to think that it had been on his mind as much as hers, but, having known him for over seven years, she found it sincerely doubtful.

'Well, then?' he asked, expression – still several centimetres above Rowena's face – unreadable. 'Talk away.'

'OK, yeah. Yeah. Alright.'

Oh Gods, now she was actually here, and he was actually just _there_, perhaps now really wasn't the best time to talk about it? Any word out of place carried the potential of throwing him into one of the world renowned Slytherin Moody Fits, and that could be very unbearable at such short range. Besides, she felt so stupid now for mentioning it…

'Alright,' he repeated, 'what?'

'Er…'

'Well?'

'Er…'

'Yes?'

'Er…'

'I could do this all night, you know.' He shrugged, narrowly avoiding her nose. 'Don't rush on my account; I've got nothing on. Not literally,' he added, 'don't excite yourself.'

'Oh...stop it.'

'You _are _propositioning me, aren't you?'

'Stop it, or I'll bite your hair.'

'You want me.'

'Stop it! I'm trying to have a serious conversation!'

'You want me bad.'

'Stop that!' she cried, slightly hysterically. 'Stop that, or I will _flick your nipples off!_'

Stunned silence.

'Er,' said Rowena, 'I – '

Salazar cackled.

* * *

**11.25pm**

Salazar ducked his head slightly. 'Bloody low ceiling,' he muttered, 'what's it for, anyway?'

'Keeping the rain out?'

'No, not the ceiling. I meant the actual cupboard.'

'Oh.' Rowena shrugged, trying her best to glance around the place for clues, but finding her vision restricted by shoulders and elbows. 'I don't know. Just an empty storage space, isn't it?'

'God knows. I'm sure it's supposed to have something in it.'

'Other than two adult humans.'

'Hm.' He blew her hair away from his mouth, causing her to flinch. 'What did you twitch for?'

'It tickled my ear.'

'What are you, a golden retriever?'

Rowena sighed, but smiled all the same. Just briefly, she rested her head against his shoulder.

She quickly pulled away again.

'Ouch!' said Salazar. 'No sudden movements, dammit!'

'Sorry!'

'Honestly.' He sighed. 'I'm not going to leave here with all my toes in tact, I can just sense it.'

'Sorry,' she said again. Then: 'How much oxygen is there in this cupboard?'

He shrugged, hitting her chin again. 'I don't know, I'm sure there's plenty. Why?'

'Just feeling a bit light-headed,' she mumbled.

* * *

**11.45pm**

'What in Hell's name are you doing?'

Rowena hopped slightly to steady herself, and explained, 'Clearly, Salazar, I am standing on one foot.'

'Right. Why?'

'Blood flow.' She changed feet.

'Be careful.'

'I'll be fine.'

'I'm not worried about you – but your knee is dangerously close to my left testicle.'

Rowena hurriedly lowered her leg, glad for the darkness that disguised her blush. 'Er, sorry,' she mumbled.

Salazar was unaffected. 'Quite alright. Just try not to use your joints as much next time.'

She obediently raised her right foot, just a centimetre or so from the ground, while Salazar glanced down at it interestedly. 'That helps, does it?'

'Slightly.'

'Have you tried leaning?'

'Against what? I'm a bit limited on hard surfaces in here – whoops –' she toppled slightly to one side, grabbing at Salazar's sleeve to avoid falling completely, 'Sorry.'

'No problem.'

'I'm just worried that if I lean back too far, I'll take the whole cupboard down with me.'

'Hm.' For a moment or so she held her breath, feeling his eyes on her. Then he said, 'Are you going to let go of my sleeve yet?'

She quickly did so, mumbling, 'Yep, yep…sorry.'

'No problem,' he said, again. He yawned. 'Alright, so what's the plan, exactly?'

'The caretaker should be doing a sweep at about three o'clock,' said Rowena, 'to make sure the students are all in bed. If we're not out by then, that's probably our best opportunity.'

'But someone will be past before then, won't they?'

'Oh, definitely. We'll be out by midnight.'

'Right,' he said, glancing down at her for just a second, 'good.'

* * *

**12.07am**

Sounding slightly amused, Salazar said, 'You still haven't asked.'

'I know,' said Rowena, defensively, 'I'm getting there.'

'Alright. In your own time, ask away.'

Rowena merely muttered under her breath to occupy the awkward pause. Bloody Salazar. She'd ask him all about his friendly lips, alright, once she'd decided on a way to phrase it sensibly. "How dare you snog me, you sexual deviant?" lacked a certain amount of subtlety, whereas "So, kissing. What's that all about?" lacked just about everything. "Fancy a shag?" was basically a non-starter.

ARGH where had that come from?

Damn you, God of cupboards!

'Alright, Ravenclaw?'

Damn you, damn you, damn you!

'I'm fine.'

'Were you just stamping your feet –?'

Damn you, feet! 'No.'

'Right.'

Damn it all! 'Er,' said Rowena, desperately seeking a change of topic, 'how much longer, d'you think, before someone gets us out?'

Resisting the impulse to shrug – as Rowena had learned to bite whenever he injured her nose – he said, 'Excellent question. I wonder if there's a rota of some sort? We might get a break every two hours for sandwiches and the use of a latrine. Then it'll be someone else's turn to stand in the cupboard.'

'Oh dear,' said Rowena, shaking her head, 'someone's feeling sarcastic today.'

'It's my reaction to claustrophobia.'

'Right.'

'Head,' he commanded. Rowena tilted her head to one side while he moved her hair from his face, patted it down and said, 'alright, done. Why is your hair so big?'

'I don't know,' she replied, moving back to her original position, 'genetics? It's not that big.'

'You've got split ends.'

'I have not.'

'Out of the two of us, who has your fringe in their eyes?'

'I don't have a fringe.'

'Whatever this part's called, then.'

'That part, Salazar, would be called _hair_. It's similar to yours, but much better maintained and attached to _my _scalp.'

His smirk brushed against her forehead. 'Better maintained? I don't think so. Two o'clock.'

Rowena glanced up, uncomprehendingly. 'Come again?'

'Two o'clock. I think we'll definitely be out of here by two o'clock, this morning.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, who personally found it doubtful, 'good. I'm teaching transfiguration at nine.'

Salazar didn't reply. Rowena took this badly.

'I am, aren't I?' she asked, looking up again. 'I'm teaching at nine, aren't I?'

'Yes,' he said slowly, 'yes, you're teaching at nine.'

'I'm teaching _transfiguration _at nine, aren't I?'

'Hm.'

'Hm?'

'No.'

'No? Why no?'

'Because I happen to know an unemployed transfiguration teacher who needed a favour.'

Rowena stared, words temporarily failing her. The she yelped, 'You utter tit! Don't laugh!'

Salazar grinned. 'Sorry. You're verbal skills are hilarious, though.'

She spluttered incredulously for a second or two, before demanding, 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'What am I teaching instead?'

'Hm,' he mumbled, stepping backwards as far as was possible, 'maybe I should tell you later.'

'Tell me now, or I'll kick!'

'Alright, alright! You and Hufflepuff will be teaching…'

'Yes?'

'…Cookery. Ow! Bloody Hell!'

The cupboard swayed on its hinges, while muffled cries and thuds echoed from within. Shouts of "utter tit" and "impudent toss-pot" were responded to with "bloody ouch" and "that's my nipple", then finally, "no, Ravenclaw – never touch the hair!"

* * *

**12:37am**

'Are you going to tell me?' Salazar demanded.

'Alright,' said Rowena, 'he said, "It's a lot smaller than I expected, but at least your wife's not complaining!"'

Salazar shook his head.

'No?'

'No.'

'Not at all?'

'Not even vaguely.'

'Not even the vicar?'

_'Especially _not the vicar, Ravenclaw. That verged on plain pornography.'

'Oh, I don't know,' Rowena sighed, 'Elvina told me it.'

'Well, the punch-line's very weak.'

'I don't even get it, personally.'

Salazar laughed.

'What?'

'You don't get it?'

'No, I don't.'

'You don't understand what he's talking about?'

'No,' she repeated, shuffling uncomfortably, 'I got lost when the second wizard produced a rabbit from his hat.'

Salazar sniggered again. 'I can't believe you don't get it.'

'Well! I get that – that it's rude,' she mumbled, 'and it has something to do with the muggle's wife.'

'Yes?'

'Yes nothing,' she replied, shortly, 'I'm not going to face the indignity of pursuing it.'

'That's because you don't get it.'

'Shut up. You're the one who wanted entertaining.'

'And you're going a bloody good job, Rowena. Tell me another one.'

'I don't know any others.'

'Yes you do.'

'I don't.'

'Yes you do, and if you don't tell me I'm going to fall asleep.'

'Fine, you do that.'

'Right then.'

Seconds elapsed. Rowena folded her arms, purposely catching Salazar's ribcage as she did so as a sign of her displeasure.

After a minute or two had passed, she said, 'You _know _I can't even cook. It'll all come back to you, you know.'

Salazar didn't reply.

'Helga's pretty good at it, but she's no culinary genius.'

Silence.

'Slytherin?' She nudged his elbow. 'Salazar? Slytherin, you tit-witch, wake up!'

Salazar obediently opened his eyes and said, 'Missing me?'

'No.'

''Night, then.'

'Stop it – Salazar! Slytherin! _Slytherin!'_

'Mm?'

'Open your eyes!'

'Can't.'

'Why?'

'Sleeping.'

'Oh, stop being a baby!'

'Someone's in a bad mood.'

'I'm tired and cramped!'

'Me too, so let me get to sleep.'

'Salazar! You wake up right now, or so help me God I will strangle you with my own glossy locks!'

Salazar opened his eyes. 'What have Godders and Hufflepuff been arguing about, anyway?'

Rowena simmered down enough to ask, 'Why? What do you mean?'

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't they bickering down the corridor a couple of hours ago?'

'Oh – er, yeah, I forgot about that. Jumping into a cupboard must've distracted me.'

'Well?' he demanded, 'What's wrong?'

'I don't know,' she replied, honestly, 'I'm sure it's nothing –'

'You don't know?'

'No, I don't. Honestly.'

'Pfft. What a marvellous friend you are.'

'I'm not her _minder!_'

Somewhere above her, she knew an eyebrow was being raised. 'Alright. When was your last in-depth conversation with Hufflepuff?'

Rowena rolled her eyes. 'Salazar, I'm not going to –'

'When was your last conversation with Hufflepuff?'

She blinked.

'Was it over three minutes long?'

She blinked again.

'Was it about Hufflepuff?'

'Shut up,' she mumbled, folding her arms in a vane attempt to more clearly separate their torsos, 'she's been busy. We've both been busy.'

Salazar undoubtedly smirked. 'Busy? Yes, Hufflepuff's been very busy with Godders and her house and her bickering. What have you been doing, all this time?'

Rowena mumbled something under her breath.

'What was that?'

'Plenty,' she repeated, slightly louder, 'I've done plenty of interesting and time-consuming things.'

Outside, an owl hooted and rustled the leaves of a nearby tree. Rowena held her breath in anticipation of the inevitable question that hung on Salazar's sneering lips –

'Like what?'

Like totter around after His Smirkiness, High Lord Slytherin, Queen of the Bloody Castle. Christ.

She shrugged. 'Plenty. Anyway – you're hardly one to talk! How many conversations have you had with her? Or Godders? Or even Hat!'

'Move.'

'What?'

'Shift your feet.' She obediently did so. 'Turn ninety degrees. No, that's forty-five. Better. Ok, elbows. Right, and move backwards as far as you can…much better.' He leant backwards, into the corner of the cupboard where two walls met. Through the darkness and dust, she could almost make out the whites of his eyes.

'Well?' she demanded.

Salazar shrugged, smirked, and raised an eyebrow at once. Rowena had to marvel at the skill. 'I've been far too busy.'

'You used to be friends,' she pointed out, recollections of their first year slowly resurfacing, 'you and Godric, that is.'

'No, I just used to sit with him.'

'Well, you used to sit with him, then.'

'He's my cousin.'

'But you still sat with him.'

'But I did blackmail him into doing so.'

'But you still sat with him.'

There was a mutual pause. Salazar said, 'Very little reaction from The Prudish One there, Ravenclaw.'

'It startles me how un-amazed I am at the revelation, Slytherin. And I'm not a prude,' she added, defensively. Salazar blackmailed Godric? Oh, what a surprise. Oh, how terribly unforeseen. Oh, how dreadfully predicatable.

''Course not.'

Rowena sighed. 'Alright then, tell me: why did you –?'

'I'm not a nice person, you know.'

'Well, you're hardly Doctor Love, I'll give you that. But why –?'

'Complete bastard, actually.' Rowena looked for his eyes in the darkness, but they'd disappeared under the shields of his eyelids. For one horrifically awkward moment she thought he was crying, but as he spoke again she realised he was merely attempting vertical sleep. 'Utter tit-witch, you might say.'

'Tit-witch? What are –? Oy, wake up!'

'Shush.'

'Don't shush me, wake up!'

`'Stop trying to—'

'I'm not trying to molest you, before you start!'

Salazar's eyes re-appeared as he chuckled. 'You want me.'

'Stop saying that,' Rowena mumbled, accidentally revealing far too much discomfort at the accusation. 'Why did you blackmail Godric?'

Salazar shrugged, sobering up slightly. 'It's not important.'

'You seemed to think it was. How did you blackmail him?'

'I know things,' he said, with exaggerated mystery in his tone, 'secret things…'

'Yes?'

'I'm not going to tell you.'

'Why not?'

'Because they're secret things. Nighty-night, Ravenclaw.'

'But…bloody Hell!'

* * *

**2:12am**

Rowena wavered for a few seconds, then demanded, 'Why did you kiss me, then?'

'When?'

'What do you mean, "when"? When you kissed me!'

Salazar smirked. 'Why did you kiss me back?'

'Pfft…' She waved an impatient hand. 'Go back to sleep!'

'Right-o, Ravenclaw.'

* * *

**2:31am**

'It was an accident, you realise.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, shortly, 'I realise.'

'I mean, you moved. And I moved. Simultaneously.' He waved his hands around vaguely. 'Inadvertant clashes were inevitable.'

'You didn't have to stick your tongue in, though.'

'Hm...no. I suppose not.'

* * *

**2.42am**

'I didn't even kiss you back.'

Silence.

'I didn't.'

'Alright.' He shifted his weight and leant on his other arm, then asked, 'How was it?'

'I wish you'd stop mentioning it.'

Salazar smirked. Rowena suddenly realised that, somewhere along the line, she'd failed a test. Miserably. She may have been too tired to think straight, but somewhere in her mind the thought persisted: do not go to sleep, Ravenclaw, do not go to sleep! Sleeping in a cupboard with Salazar is the card at the bottom of the house – you do that, the whole damn thing collapses. Just imagine if Helga was in here with you; what would she say?

Good thing she's not in here, it'd turn into a dry orgy.

That's beside the point. Just try not to kiss him this time.

Hang on – was Rowena suggesting Rowena couldn't control Rowena's own lips?

How many Rowenas were in the damn cupboard? Surely one of them could afford some shut-eye…

'Ah,' said Salazar, interrupting her – for want of a better word – thoughts.

Rowena raised her head, groggily. 'Hm?'

'I've remembered what this cupboard's for.'

'Huh?'

'This cupboard,' Salazar repeated, 'I remember what we keep in it.'

'Yes?'

'Frogs.'

Rowena choked. 'Fr…what? What?'

'Frogs,' he repeated, 'that's why the ceiling's so low. There's a shelf above our heads with frogs on.'

Rowena quickly ducked her head into Salazar's forearm, grasping at his shirt and shaking it hysterically. 'Dead ones?' she demanded, 'Dead ones?'

'Not live ones, obviously!'

Rowena squealed as he attempted to shake her loose. 'In jars? Are they in jars?'

'Well – '

'THEY SHOULD BE IN JARS!'

'Well, _that_ one isn't – '

'_Muaaaaauuuuuugh!_'

To different people, this high-pitched wail and desperate flaying of limbs suggested different things. To Rowena, it meant: Frogs frogs frogs sweet argh no no no is it on me? Is it on me? ARGH it's on me isn't it? Hair! Slimy green NO NO NO NOOO

To Salazar, the noise suggested Rowena was in a state of considerable distress.

To an innocent bystander, it suggested that somewhere, not too far away, a cow was being born.

It was only the sudden jolt of the floor, the flaying of limbs and collapse of the walls that suggested something was truly awry. Rowena had time to scream, gasp, and grab onto the nearest parts of Salazar's anatomy she could get her hands on, before the cupboard fell forwards and tumbled to the ground.

Wheezing commenced. Rowena held her breath.

Above her, Salazar exclaimed, 'Christ in a dinghy!'

* * *

**2:44am**

After thirty seconds of so of silence, Rowena felt one of them had to assess the situation. 'Salazar,' she said, as calmly as possible, 'we appear to be in an awkward position.'

'I believe you're right, Ravenclaw,' he replied, equally as calm, 'as we appear to be in a cheaply made coffin for two.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, 'also, you appear to be laid on top of me.'

'Ah, there I beg to differ.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes. I believe that you appear to be laid _under _me.'

'Fair point well made.'

'Thank you.'

'Salazar?'

'Yes?'

'There were never any frogs in here, were there?'

'No, Ravenclaw. There were not.'

'I see.'

'That was, in fact, a scheme of mine, to encourage you to break open the cupboard door with an unnatural, fear-acquired strength.'

'I see.'

'I didn't work.'

'No. No it didn't.'

Rowena attempted to move her head. Unfortunately, her head was directly underneath Salazar's head. In fact, his thin, dagger-like nose was against hers, and they were currently enduring a very direct staring competition. She'd never realised how difficult it was to speak from the corner of her mouth until that moment, when neglecting to do so could result in bad things. The phrase "I wish the ground could just open up and swallow me" had never seemed so apt.

'Ravenclaw?'

'Yes?'

'You look quite good from this angle.'

…_Come again?_

'Hello there, Professor.' Oh God. Light. Horrible, horrible candlelight as the door flung open, and a blonde, petite face appeared above them. 'What are you doing?'

Salazar half-smiled and sprung to his feet. Rowena exhaled and remained stationary.

'Morning, Heather,' he said, stretching his legs, 'what are you doing up?'

Rowena, laid in her nice wooden tomb, observed Heather's amused grin as she replied, 'What are you doing in a cupboard with…her?'

'It's an amusing story, I'll tell you it one day.'

'Fair enough.'

He kissed her cheek. 'Go back to your dormitory, then.'

She smirked. 'Alright, Sally.'

'Coming, Ravenclaw?' He looked down at her and observed, 'You look ill. Are you ok?'

'I'm fine,' she squeaked.

'See you, then.' Heather laughed as they made their exit, and Rowena was left staring at a dark ceiling.

Beneath her breath, she said, 'I think you just punched me in the stomach, that's all.'


	18. Chapter 18: Memories of Flaming Pastries

**Chapter 18: Horrible Memories of Flaming Pastries**

The black, heavy scent of smoke filled Rowena's nostrils, and suddenly she was thirteen again: Helga squealed and giggled as she prodded the logs on the common room fire, spitting yellow sparks across the floor and glowing in the darkness. Rowena, the shiny highlight of her sweaty, pink face visible by the light of the fire, fell backwards and laughed until tears formed in her eyes and spluttered sentiments of glee.

Further back still was her grandmother's kitchen fire, which Rowena would loll about near, lost in her own world and under firm house arrest. She stared at the tapestries, mind fixed on school work and her spot near the river, and how she would keep Elvina Hart away from it by any means necessary. She thought about Helga, and their afternoon spent shopping with the money they may or may not have stolen from Helga's uncle Ulrich while he was drunk. She thought about that Slytherin boy from her school house who threw a potato at her, and why Godric Gryffindor would ever associate with him.

The thick, black scent of the fire filled the air, and somebody screamed –

'Rowena! Your bloody pie's on fire!'

'Christ in a dinghy!'

* * *

'Sorry about that, Helly,' Rowena mumbled, once the fire had been fully extinguished, 'I was in my own world.'

'So I saw,' Helga muttered, a hint of resentment in her tone.

'No need to sound so angry.'

'Rowena, you were asleep.'

'Was I?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.' She shrugged helplessly and pulled an apron around herself. 'Sorry, Helly. Now, class,' she said, turning to the terrified girls before her, 'there's a wrong and a right way to make a pie. That,' she said, pointing towards the scorched stove, 'was the wrong way.'

The girls – a combination of first and second year pupils – nodded in horrified obedience.

Rowena also nodded, and asked, 'Did any one notice my deliberate mistake?'

Silence.

'Anyone?'

A short girl, dwarfed by her huge robes and red hair, raised a tentative hand.

'Yes, Christina?'

'Er, Miss fell asleep, Miss.'

Rowena nodded enthusiastically. 'Yes, yes, Christina, the Professor went to sleep. That was my deliberate mistake.'

'Er, Professor also made the oven too hot.'

'No, Christina, Professor did not make – oh, did I?' Beside her, Helga nodded gravely.

'Yes, Professor. Professor also made the pastry too thick.'

'No,' said Rowena.

'Yes,' said Helga.

Christina nodded. 'You also didn't cook the meat properly.'

Rowena sighed. 'I did!'

'You didn't,' said a short-haired second year, 'it was still pink.'

'It was rare!'

'It was poisonous.'

Helga nodded. 'I was going to point it out, Ro—'

Another first year said, 'It was also the wrong kind of meat.'

'And you forgot to add the gravy.'

'And you left the skins on the vegetables.'

'You're supposed to!' Rowena cried, shrinking backwards slightly. 'That's where all the nutrients are!'

'Not freshly-dug vegetables, Professor,' said Christina, 'that's where all the germs are.'

'And the poison,' Helga added.

'You don't get poisonous vegetables!'

Another student said, 'Not in the kind we've been using, Professor. You dug the wrong vegetables.'

'I didn't!'

'You did, I saw you.'

'Then why didn't you tell me?'

As one, the class retorted, 'Deliberate mistake.'

Rowena gave a forced grin, then slowly turned to Helga to whisper, 'I hate these bastards.'

Helga's eyes closed. 'Ro…you've still got _sonorous _on.'

A tiny part of Rowena Ravenclaw shrivelled up and died.

'Right,' she said eventually, not daring to turn around, 'now I've demonstrated how not to make a pie, I'm going to leave you in the ever-capable hands of Professor Hufflepuff, who will show you how to do it just right. I want you to remember all my mistakes, write them down and bring it back to me as homework. You might want to start with "Dared to dream of a successful future", but leave out "Swore at class of wealthy students".'

Behind her, there was a simultaneous chorus of, 'Yes, Professor Ravenclaw.'

'Ro,' said Helga, warningly, 'you're not leaving me.'

'I have to, Helga. Or the world will collapse. And God knows, we don't want that to happen. _Adieu_.'

As Rowena drifted back to Ravenclaw Tower, she wondered what people would think about her in one hundred years' time. Would historical inaccuracy and legend paint her as a wise, witty, noble genius? Or the idiot who spent God-knows-how-long torturing herself over a scrawny fellow with a nose like a rapier?

Clearly, she was a failure. Somewhere along the line she was supposed to take someone's advice or ignore someone's opinion or…something. Whatever it was, she hadn't done it properly. Now the school was going to fail and Salazar was going to go traipsing off into the sunset with the girl with the large forehead, and even though she didn't care, well, she did.

God, she wanted a…something. Not a drink. A lie-down? A wrestling match? A tobacco pipe? A slap around the face? A sharpened stick and something to hit with it?

Ale. Whores. Wimmin.

Oh gods above, where was she now? And why did that storeroom smell like a tavern?

* * *

Helga knocked on the door of a dungeon classroom; lightly at first, but with increasing force as her knocks went unanswered.

Finally, a voice from inside the room said, 'It's open.'

She pushed the door open and went inside. Through the thick clouds of smoke that billowed out of the room, she could just about make out the thin figure perched on the end of his desk. Looking slightly closer, she could just about see the rows of seventh years sat in front of him, gingerly tapping their cauldrons.

'May I have a word, Professor Slytherin?' she asked.

Slytherin raised an eyebrow. 'I'm afraid I'm supervising a class at the moment.'

Lowering her voice, Helga said, 'You're sat cross-legged on a table in a room that smells of dead goat, Slytherin. I'm sure you can lend me a minute of your time.'

'Oh yes,' he said, without lowering his voice, 'I thought I recognised that odour. I was thinking of something in the bovine family initially, but then I remembered the donkey—'

'I don't have time to discuss your sexual history, Slytherin. I'd like a word.'

'I'm afraid I'm busy.'

'I want a word.'

'As you can see, I'm teaching.'

'If I don't _get _a word,' she said, through gritted teeth, 'I'll have to cut off your ghoulies and have them cast in stainless steel to be used as very small paperweights.'

Slytherin smiled. 'Well, that'd certainly solve all your filing problems.'

_'Now_, Slytherin. I don't have time for this.'

'Fine, fine.' He turned to his class. 'Amuse yourselves for a minute or two, I'll be just outside.'

There was a mumble of "yes, Professor" as they exited the room, Helga closing the door after them.

Slytherin smirked and leant against the wall, arms folded as usual. 'Yes?' he prompted. 'To what do I owe the pleasure of being threatened by you today?'

'The pleasure's all mine. What have you done to Rowena?'

Slytherin's eyebrows rose again, and for the briefest moment he glanced away. 'What do you mean?'

'Have a guess.'

'Gone on a homicidal rampage, has she?'

'No.'

'Wouldn't surprise me if she had. She's always had that look about her.'

Helga took a deep breath, as if summoning the courage to continue: 'Don't act as if you're _friends_, Slytherin. I know Rowena, and I know what's best for her.'

He cocked an eyebrow. 'There's a grand statement.'

'It's not subtle,' she conceded, 'but it's true.'

He just smirked.

'Whatever you've done or said,' Helga continued, keeping her voice down, 'it's had an effect. Well done. And if you cared about her even slightly you'd undo it – because - because you're not her _friend_, Slytherin. Whatever you are, you're not her friend. Could you argue that?'

Slytherin lowered his eyes. He didn't stop smirking.

'Right, then,' said Helga uncertainly, turning on her heel, 'I'll leave you to your goat smell.'

'Someone's in a bad mood.'

She stopped in her tracks and turned around. 'Well,' she said, 'we can't all be jolly Mr Marshmallow, can we?'

'Godder's gone and got your knickers in a twist, has he?'

'Don't sound so delighted.'

'Relationships often fall apart when people keep secrets from one another.'

'Oh, _really_,' she snapped, his falsely sincere tone making her fists itch. 'And what would _you _know about relationships?'

'Did you punch him when he told you? I'd have punched him.'

'Shut up. Good bye.'

Her escape was prevented as he held onto her arm, and demanded, 'When did he tell you?'

'That's none of your business.'

'Must've been a shock - finding out what he really is, after so long-'

'I thought I was pregnant,' said Helga, quietly.

Salazar quickly released her arm.

'But I'm not,' she mumbled. She sniffed and brushed the creases from her sleeve. 'But I thought I was.'

The classroom door opened, and Heather Bettany appeared. 'Have you finished, Professor? Crispin's on fire.'

'Yes,' said Slytherin, not taking his eyes off Helga, 'yes, I'm coming.'

* * *

'Ach,' said Hat, 'the man's an arse!'

'I know, I know,' said Rowena, 'he's poisoned my mind. He's done something. He's…' She gesticulated wildly for a moment or two, before concluding, 'He's woven his magic juju all over me.'

'Ach, pervert!'

'No no,' said Rowena, hurriedly, 'that was a metaphor. Not…not whatever you think it was. No. God no.'

Rowena had plunged to many lows during her career, but none could quite match the situation she now found herself in: hunched in a storeroom, drowning her sorrows with a talking hat. She took a gulp of ale.

'I'm just saying,' she continued, 'that a year ago – less, even – I wouldn't have looked at him twice, unless I was going to spit on him.'

'Fair enough,' said Hat.

'But over the last few days he's had me following him around like an idiot – a shame to the female race!'

'Wimmin!'

'Exactly! What happened to my, to my…ambitions?'

'Ach,' said Hat, 'are ye sat on them?'

'No, no. _He _is!'

'Bastard!'

'Yes! Only – only metaphorically, of course.'

'Ach. _Ale!_'

'Yes, ale! Oh – for you, you mean?'

'Aye!'

'Right…' She clambered to her feet, climbed over a mop and reached over to the battered cabinet Hat lived above, then poured a bottle of unlabelled liquid into his tip.

'Aye, aye,' he said, 'that'll do, woman! Go steady on the hard stuff.'

'Right, right. Sorry.'

'I'm only made of a potato sack!'

'I said I was sorry.' She sat back down again, and sighed forlornly. 'What are they going to think of me, Hat?'

'Who?'

'Everyone! In, in a hundred years' time when I'm dead, and that. Are they going to think I'm some drunk, lusty idiot with nice hair? A girl who sat in storerooms and cupboards and did strange and unusual things?'

'Well,' said Hat, 'you are!'

'I know I am! But I don't want _them _to think that!'

'What about me?' said Hat. 'What will they say about me?'

'Oh…I don't know,' she said, waving her hand dismissively, 'we'll tell them something good about you. Say you were Godric's, or something.'

'Ach! The big red lummox?'

'Yes, that one.'

'Whores!'

'He most certainly isn't, I'm sure I'd know if he was.'

'I wants me some whores!'

'Well, you can't have any!' She sniffed and folded her arms. 'Isn't my company good enough?'

'Could be better,' said Hat.

Rowena climbed to her feet and pointed at Hat accusingly. 'Look, Mr Hat! I've talked to you, I've, I've fed you and I've clothed you!'

'Lies!'

'Not lies, truth! And I will not hear of that kind of…slander.'

'But—'

'I will not hear you!'

'Ach, you're a pal!'

Rowena beamed. 'I am, aren't I? I'm really very good. And I made a tapestry, once.'

'Aye?'

'Aye. It had birds and bees on.' She frowned and sat back down. 'Of course, looking back at it now I see it's all a coded phallic metaphor. Oh, Hat!'

'Aye?'

'What am I going to do?'

'Er…ale!'

'Eugh. Really?' She frowned, stared at the bottle of ale and shook her head. 'No, I don't think so. It knows me.'

'I know ye!'

'I know you know me, you know I do.'

'Er…whores!'

'What?' She looked up and shook her head again. 'I don't go in for that kind of thing, Hat. It's all very sordid.'

'Ach.'

'You know, you remind me very much of my brother. Wherever he is now.' She rubbed her temples, and continued, 'I imagine he's in a port somewhere, with a breast in one hand and a bottle of shiny red stuff in the other. Well bravo to him, I say!'

'I'll drink to that!'

'No, no,' said Rowena, sitting back down, 'no more to drink. Last time I got drunk, I…' Vague, distorted memories of the Hogwarts "par-tay" slowly surfaced, causing her to shudder. 'Let's put it this way: I don't want to wake up in the corridor with your wand in my hand, Hat. It's all very...very phallic, and I don't have time for that kind of thing in my busy. Ouch. My busy schedule.'

'Haven't got a wand!'

'Well, I'm still not risking it.'

'Ach. Ye bastard.'

'Stop being rude. Go on then, Hat: any other suggestions to cheer me up?'

'Wimmin!'

'Hm. Thought so. Ah,' she subsided further down whatever she was subsiding down and sighed, 'life is a very…impromptu affair, Hat.'

'Ach,' said Hat, recoiling slightly, 'ye's getting philosophical now!'

'Shush, you nasty drunk. Stop wiggling.'

'I'm not!'

'Shush. Shush. Life's very impromptu.'

'You've said that.'

'It's all…' She waved her arms about. 'All dash dash dash, isn't it? You only get to guess what's going to happen if you press the big yellow button, don't you?'

'What button? Ach, ye's lying to me now!'

'I'm not, Hat! Hatty boy. I'm not. There's a great big yellow button somewhere, and I thought to myself – do you know what I thought?'

'Ale?'

'Yes. No, I thought, "Rowena," I thought, "you can walk past this button and get on with your life, you can. You'll look back over your shoulder and you'll still see it – this big yellow button, getting smaller and smaller as you walk away, and even when you're…when you're really old and married and making beads and things, you'll look over your shoulder and you'll see this yellow button, and you'll think, I wonder what would've happened if I pushed that button? Oh, I wish I could push it and find out, but I can't, because it's really, really small now. Really small. Like an ant." That's what I thought.'

'Er…aye?'

'Yes. And then I thought, "Or I can _not _walk past the button, and I can press it instead, and see what happens." And you know what happens when you press the big, yellow button?'

'Whores?'

'No Hat, not whores. Everything...explodes. Do you know that?'

'Wimmin?'

'Yes, them too. All the future, with your husband and your beads, that all explodes. And all the other people explode, and even a lot of you explodes, but you hold on to this button, you really hold on—'

'I thought ye were pushing it?'

'I am, I am, but I'm holding it as well, and you can't let go of the button, you've got to just…keep…pushing. Until…'

'Aye?'

'Until…'

'Aye?'

'Until it becomes un-pushed.'

'Ach,' said Hat, 'that's something ye've got to be wary of…un-pushy buttons.'

'Yes,' said Rowena, 'yes, yes, exactly! Hat?'

'Aye?'

'You're the only one who understands me…' She froze. 'Oh.'

'Aye?'

'Balls.'

'Whores?'

'I've got a lesson in five minutes.'

'Ale!'

'NO!'

* * *

Ninety minutes later, Rowena looked out across the sea of staring pupils and said, 'Well.'

The fourth years waited.

'I can only apologise for that.'

The fourth years nodded.

'Did anyone notice my deliberate mistake?'

Every hand shot into the air.

'Ah. Very good.'

* * *

Rowena dashed through the Ravenclaw common room, ignoring the swarm of students, and slammed the door of her office. She exhaled deeply and turned around.

After a second or so, she left the room again. She said, 'Balls, balls and buggery,' then entered the room again.

Salazar raised an eyebrow, as was his custom. 'Having fun?'

'Hokey-cokey,' she mumbled, dropping her notes in an untidy pile.

'The "teacher" image suits you.'

'Don't,' said Rowena, warningly.

His eyebrow dropped. 'Alright.'

'What do you want?'

'The pleasure of your company, maybe.'

'I'd have thought you'd had enough of that recently.'

'Well, there's nothing like a cupboard to bring people closer together.'

Rowena privately disagreed. 'If you say so. But what do you actually want?'

'Trying to get rid of me?'

'Only slightly.' She shooed him away from her desk and took a seat there, sighing discreetly when his back was turned. Horrible, snakey monster. Couldn't he just disappear, for once?

'What's wrong, Ravenclaw?' Slytherin asked, unemotionally. 'Aren't we friends?'

'Yes, Salazar. We're friends. Like a bloody monkey and an organ-grinder. Would you please tell me what you want? I'm quite busy.'

He sort-of grinned. 'I just came to see how you were.' The statement would have displayed concern, if only his voice had expressed some. Instead, he sounded like a scientist checking on a specimen.

'I'm fine. I'm perfectly happy. In fact, I've realised I possess special magical abilities. All I have to _do _is see an attractive female and state the fact, and you start going out with her!'

'Ah. Heather?'

'_Hey presto_.'

'Well—'

'Sorry, Salazar, but I really am quite busy. I have priorities, you know.'

'Yes,' he said, voice as detached and emotionless as it had been throughout the discussion, 'well done.' Without another word, he left.

Rowena stared at her desk, biting her bottom lip. She took a few deep breaths, stifled a sob, and began writing a lesson plan.

* * *

An hour or so later, someone knocked at Rowena's door.

She looked up. 'Yes?'

'Er, Professor?' said a small voice.

'Yes?'

'Michael's on fire.'

Rowena sighed. 'You'd better put him out, then.'

'Er…alright.'

Rowena continued her work.

The voice said, 'Er, Professor?'

'What?'

'Michael really is on fire.'

'Well, you'd really better put him out then, hadn't you?'

'Er…alright, Professor. Does that mean we can use magic?'

'Yes. If another student is on fire, I give you full permission to use magic to extinguish them.'

'It's just, it doesn't say that in the leaflet—'

'For God's sake man, extinguish him!'

'Yes, Professor!'

Rowena silently prayed she was never quite so dim as her third years, and continued to work.

There was another knock.

'He's not still on fire, is he?'

'No,' said Helga, 'they rolled him up in a carpet.'

'Come in, Helly.'

Helga did so, closed the door and silently slumped into a chair.

After a minute or so, Rowena said, 'Helga, are you dead?'

'Not sure. Sorry for not turning up earlier.'

'Hm?'

'Cookery lesson.'

'Oh,' said Rowena, horrible memories of flaming pastries arising from the grave, 'that. It's alright, Helly. Serves me right for abandoning you this morning.'

'I just...needed some time to think. About things.'

'Oh, yes?'

'Yes.'

'Yes?'

'Yes.'

Rowena raised her eyebrows and looked up. 'Yes?'

Helga continued to stare at her feet. 'Yes.'

'Er…are you going to tell me which things?'

'Yes. I'm leaving Godric.'

'Leaving him where?' Realisation slowly dawned. She dropped her quill. 'What, you're leaving him?'

'Yes,' Helga said, glumly.

'_Leaving _him, leaving him?'

'Yes. I'm…' She sought the right words for a second or two before giving up, making the noise of a deflating balloon.

'But why?' asked Rowena, walking over to her friend. 'What happened? I know you've been arguing, but surely—'

'Circumstances,' she mumbled, 'conspired against us. All…crap. I thought - oh dear. Ro, if you were seeing somebody, and you hadn't had the, er, _painters_ in for a while, what would you think?'

Rowena's eyes darted urgently around her sockets in search of assistance. 'Which painters are these, Helga?'

_'The _painters, Ro. The Painters of Menstrual Euphemism.'

'Oh, them. Oh. Oh! You're not _pregnant?_'

Helga shook her head. 'Apparently not. But I thought I was.'

'Oh. Ah. So…?'

Helga just shook her head.

'You told Godric, then? When you still thought you _were?_' Helga nodded. 'And his response was…?'

'His response,' Helga mumbled, 'was of a negative nature.'

'Oh. Dear. Panicked?'

'To say the least.'

'And then…?'

'Then,' said Helga, 'then he told me something that would've been nice to know slightly _earlier _in the relationship.'

'What—?'

'Then I found out I _wasn't_, in fact, carrying his child, and he continued to react very, very badly. All the wrong reactions, you might say. And now he thinks everything's going to be hunky-dory because I'm _not_, but things haven't changed because he never told me that he _was_.'

Rowena glanced over her shoulder. 'Godric's pregnant?'

'No, Ro.' Helga sighed and, unable to look Rowena in the eyes, stared into her hands instead. 'No, Ro. Godric's a werewolf.'


	19. Chapter 19: Fire and Eyebrows

**Chapter 19: Fire and Eyebrows**

Between seven and nine pm the following night, several passing students found themselves unnerved by the smells emitting form the third floor store room. The usual stench of hard ale and fried apples was joined by seven new types of liquor, burning wood and, inexplicably, a cow.

As for the noise…

The young pupils of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were rapidly becoming familiarised with the sound of two inebriated headmistresses, a rabid Scottish hat and a cow drowning their individual sorrows, while attempting to create a new drinking game called, apparently, "Tickle Mr. Turnip".

'Ale!' cried Rowena.

'Wimmin'!' exclaimed Hat.

Something mooed. After an expectant pause, Helga said, 'Does that mean I have to say whores?'

'Tickle Mr. Turnip!'

…said the cow.

* * *

September passed quickly into October, marked by the falling of orange leaves and an extra layer of skirt. Rowena and Helga, reunited by their past troubles and an event referred to only as "The Turnip Times", made themselves comfortable under the trees by the lake.

Their current position served a multitude of purposes: they were avoiding the students lunching in the great hall, avoiding their co-founders in the staff room, avoiding a certain group of seventh years and ensuring the woods remained a strictly nookie-free zone, as Helga so euphemistically phrased it.

'Got some money,' Rowena managed to say, between mouthfuls of bread.

Helga, leaning over a large book marked "Accounts (and some other things)", nodded. 'Oh yes. When was that?'

'Dunno.'

'How much was it?'

'Lots.'

'How many lots?'

'Lots and lots.'

Helga wrote that down. 'Money In:...lots and lots...and Money Out:...Lots.' She snapped the book shut. 'Great.'

Rowena briskly wiped the crumbs from her lap, swallowed the rest of her sandwich and threw a slice of pickle at the lake, where it was claimed by a thin, vegetarian tendril. 'I love money,' she announced. 'I think I want to marry money, set up house with it somewhere and have lots of wealthy babies, who I will then sell.'

Helga shook her head. 'What about romance?'

'That _is_ romance, where I come from.'

Rowena sat back in her chair and pulled a shawl from around her elbows up to her shoulders. 'D'you remember when we were in fourth year?'

'Vaguely.'

'Remember when you, me, Elvina, Catherine and Elspeth tried predicting each others futures?'

Helga laughed fondly at the memory. 'Oh yeah, that was hilarious. What did we say about Elspeth?'

'That she'd die in a convent.'

'Oh yeah.' She laughed again. 'What about you?'

'I'd become an old spinster, eventually found dead amongst a nest of cats.'

Helga beamed. 'I was feeling particularly imaginative that day.'

'Do you remember yours?'

Helga's smile remained, although her eyes dropped. 'Yep. It involved Godric.'

'Hm. Depressing, isn't it?'

'Yes, but I'm sure I'll recover. I have no time for that lying dog—'

'Literally,' Rowena interrupted.

'—and I'm probably better off without him. Aren't I?'

'Definitely.'

'And – and I'm sure you're better off without Slytherin, Ro,' she continued, tentatively. 'Right?'

'Correct,' Rowena agreed, with a curt nod. She sighed despondently, and added, 'At least I had a cat in your version.'

'Oh, they have very short life spans. You're better off not bothering. Oh – that reminds me,' she inclined her head and, checking for eavesdroppers, whispered, 'we've lost a student.'

Rowena looked up sharply. 'Really? Why? What have I done?'

'It wasn't to do with you – her father died.'

'Gods. The poor girl! Was he rich?'

'Very.'

'Bugger!'

Helga shook her head. 'Thank God I was the one who broke the news.'

'When did it happen?'

'Last week, or just before. They found him just on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, apparently. They're probably discussing it in the staff room.'

'I'll ask Anatole later.'

'Who?'

'Anatole Amery,' Rowena explained. 'The Defence against Dark Arts man.'

'Who?'

Rowena reminded herself that it had been several weeks since Helga set foot in the staff room. 'The young one, with brown hair. A bit short. Falls over a lot.'

'Oh! Him. Oh, he's quite nice.'

'Yeah, he's alright.'

Helga raised her eyebrows suggestively.

'Piss off. In the meantime, I'm going to concentrate all my efforts on slowly destroying the nerves and mind of Heather Bettany.'

'Who? Oh, the…' Helga's face crumpled as she struggled to remember and recite one of Rowena's drunken rants: 'The slimy blonde harlot, agent of Satan, He Who Walks Backwards, Pan, El Diablo, and she's got a face like a goat's…scrotum?'

Rowena sniffed away the indignity of the memory. 'That's the one.'

'Don't do anything to her, Ro.'

'Why not?'

'Because you're bigger than that; you don't need to lower yourself. And you'll probably get arrested for child abuse.'

'She's not a child. She's an agent of Lucifer.'

'So you've said. But she's a student…'

'She's only a few months younger than us!'

'You can kill her when she leaves, alright?'

Rowena nodded, grudgingly. 'Fine. I'll draw the beast from her.'

'Good girl. Now do your homework.'

Despite the power that came with age and occupation, founding Hogwarts still felt horribly like hard work. She'd never imagined Professor Harper having an actual social life during his lectures on powdered batrachians. Had all those glazed stares signalled a love affair? Had the irritated sighs revealed a torrid lust triangle? Or did that crumpled smile genuinely come from a love of pewter-bottomed cauldrons? She was fairly confident she'd caught him caressing one on several occasions.

Trudging through a stream of on-coming first years, Rowena made her way reluctantly towards Ravenclaw tower. She'd started setting homework at the end of every lesson – simply because she didn't know how else to end the class – and the fiends actually did it! And they handed it in! And they expected her to mark it! Surely, she was never this studious? Didn't they have _hobbies?_

'—Honestly, Magdalena, I've no idea how—'

Rowena flung herself against the nearest wall. A squeak of shoes and a voice expelled from the very bowels of Satan signalled the presence of Heather Bettany and entourage.

Checking the corridor was deserted, Rowena subsided to the floor and crept towards the top of the staircase. On the floor below, Heather and a gang of four girls strolled along the corridor, lost in conversation.

Of course, said the voice of Rowena's subconscious, you harbour no ill feelings towards her whatsoever because you have absolutely no reason to. No reason to hate that swishy blonde hair or horrifically smug grin. And you'd be placing your entire career, not to mention your moral compass, in complete and utter peril if you even thought about pointing your wand at her, but she'll be out of sight in a moment so if you're going to do it, do it now now…NOW!

From the corridor below came a blood-curdling scream. Rowena stared at her wand, scrambled to her feet and ran in the direction of Ravenclaw tower.

* * *

When her cookery lesson began at four o'clock, Helga was confused - briefly - by her friend's glazed eyes and bizarre grin. The confusion was dispelled when Heather entered the room, looking decidedly...singed.

As Rowena completed her lecture on the use and abuse of eggs in Yorkshire puddings, Helga cleared her throat and beckoned her over. Rowena obeyed, joining her by the desk at the very front of the room.

'Ro,' said Helga, cautiously, 'I'm not accusing you of anything, because you're my friend and a responsible adult and I trust you immensely, but—'

'Yep!'

'Oh, you _didn't!_'

'Shush! She doesn't know.'

Helga narrowed her eyes in a way that was meant to inflict guilt. When it failed, she demanded, 'Are you sure? Because she's glaring at you like a damaged owl.'

'Oh, she always does that.'

'I can't believe you set her on fire.'

'I didn't. I just…sparked her.'

'Sparked her? You _sparked_ her?'

'Shut up!'

'She's going to want to know who did that, Ro!'

'She won't. She'll put it down to spontaneous human combustion.'

Helga narrowed her eyes again.

'It can happen,' Rowena insisted. 'I read a report.'

'That's not the point!' she hissed. 'You're not allowed to set students on fire, even if it is only slightly. What on Earth led you—?'

'Nothing.'

'Ro—'

'_Nothing!_ I just fancied a bit of...random sparking!' She waved her wand threateningly and poked it at Helga's chest. 'I'll spark _you_, if I have to.'

Helga sighed and looked away. 'Whatever. Just don't…drive yourself mad, alright?'

Rowena merely shrugged and pocketed her wand.

'I mean it. And don't do it again!'

'I won't! I wouldn't! You've got to stop treating me like a child whenever I-'

The argument was interrupted by a small explosion and eruption of smoke, which was still enough to send Heather flying through the air backwards. A few people giggled as she emerged from behind her desk with a soot-blackened face; Rowena was one of them.

Helga rolled her eyes and left to offer aid.

'What?' Rowena demanded after her. 'It's hardly my fault if she picked up the faulty cauldron, is it?'

The look Helga gave her in return said: It's your fault if you were the one who handed them out, Ro.

* * *

One side of Salazar's mouth twitched – minutely, but noticeably. 'You've been what?'

'Burnt,' Heather repeated, angrily brushing the charcoaled remains of a ribbon from her hair. 'Several times, from above.'

'Wrath of God?' he suggested.

'Are you laughing at me?'

'No,' he said, sucking in his lips to repress a smirk.

She turned from the mirror to face him and, checking his expression carefully, said, 'Good. Because I _will_ have your eye out.'

'Yes, dear.'

She turned back to the mirror and brushed furiously at the waves of her golden hair, giving Salazar enough time to work on repressing his grin.

'This is a nice office,' said Heather, still brushing away intently at a tangled end.

Salazar shrugged and took a seat at his desk. 'I've often thought so.'

'But how many mirrors do you need? I mean, I'm quite vane but this is ridiculous.'

'Only four,' he mumbled defensively.

'Six.'

'Are there?'

'Yes.'

'They make the place look bigger.'

'Mm-hm.'

It was quite a nice office, he supposed, if Evil HQ was your idea of interior design. All greens, silvers and dark brown oak. It was amazing to think how many trees must have died to achieve the look. He liked to think that, when the rest of the school was so barren, cheap, broken and second-hand, it was a pleasant change to find one's office in such an agreeable condition. If Ravenclaw saw it, she'd probably come after his jugular.

'Salazar?'

He quickly relaxed his eyebrows. Heather had a way of knowing when his thoughts turned to Ravenclaw, and he was fairly certain his eyebrows were responsible.

'Yes?'

'Does my hair look alright?'

'Lovely,' he said, sparing her a quick glance. 'Beautiful. What time is it?'

'I don't know. Why?'

He gestured towards a pile of unmarked assignments apologetically.

She smiled at him. 'Are they _really _important, Sal?'

'Depends how vital you think an education is.'

'Not as important as time with my Salazar.'

My Salazar? He'd become her Salazar? He never thought he'd become anyone's Salazar in his life. Jesus Christ.

'Well,' he said, 'this is quite an important one.'

'Alright, alright. I'll go.' She walked over to him and, leaning over his desk to kiss him, paused. 'I think I'll carry out some more investigations, actually. Find out who's been setting me on fire all day.'

'I wouldn't bother,' he said.

'Why not?'

'I'm sure they won't do it anymore.'

'Who's "they"?'

'I don't know, Heather. Just promise me you'll go to bed.'

She sighed and relented. 'Alright. I will.' She kissed him.

'Straight away,' he added.

'I will.'

'Without asking anyone anything. I'll make sure you're kept safe from now on. Alright?'

'Alright.' Before she closed the door after herself, she said, 'Salazar…your eyebrows.'

He quickly relaxed them. 'Night, Heather.'

'Night, Sally.'

* * *

The world was a big grey balloon. A big grey balloon, floating across the desert of the universe, and – no, not a desert, a forest. A big grey balloon floating across – but why would there be a balloon in the forest? Floating across the, the…ocean's floor? Fields of green? County of Derbyshire?

The world was a big grey balloon, floating across the county of Derbyshire of the Universe, and Hogwarts was a pin, and Rowena was the living embodiment of a migraine.

Actually the balloon was red, and oh, to hells with it.

'Why…' she groaned, massaging her temples roughly, 'Why did I…?'

'Ach. How many times?'

'Six.'

'Jaysis.'

'Don't judge me!'

'Why not?'

'You can't. You're a hat.'

'I still have rights!'

'Oh, God.' Rowena released a heavy sigh and subsided further down the desk until her forehead was millimetres away from J Hazelwood's essay. It was about jam. Full of pain, rage, rejection and exhaustion, she stuck out her tongue and licked it.

From atop a filing cupboard, Hat demanded, 'Did you just lick that?'

'No.'

'Christy. Fetch me some ale!'

'Grow some arms and get it yourself.'

'ALE!'

'Oh, for fu…'

Three and a half ales later, Rowena resumed her position, fairly confident it was giving her a blotchy forehead but not exactly caring.

'I can't believe,' she mumbled to Jam: King of Preservatives, 'that my life has come to this.'

'I know,' Hat growled. 'It's pathetic.'

'Thanks.'

'I thought I was low, but this is really something else.'

'Yeah.'

'You're starting to smell!'

'I am not —' She froze to sniff her pinafore experimentally. 'Well I do a bit, but that's only because I've been in a room full of onion gravy and sweaty boys for two hours.'

'Strange party.'

'It was a cookery lesson.'

'Whores!'

'Anyway.' Another despondent sigh. Hours had passed. Heather Bettany had been hit by six different hexes, and as euphoric and triumphant as they made Rowena feel initially, they were beginning to stir up extreme feelings of self-pity. 'I don't even like him!' she wailed, tugging at her hair. 'He's a…a…daft bastard!'

'Christy, are we still going on about the snake? Whores!'

'Oh, you be quiet about your whores! You don't even have reproductive organs, what would you do with them?'

Hat's scruffy face – for want of a better word – screwed up in rage, which quickly subsided into drunken remorse. 'I still have feelings.'

'You don't! You're a hat!'

'Ach, bugger off!'

'Everything's turned from gold into crap! And it's all my – no, no it isn't! It's _his _fault!'

'Not my fault!'

'No, not yours – The Pale and Pointy One.'

Hat was evidently lost. 'Who?'

'The snake. The bearded snake who hides in cupboards with towels and frogs and the illegitimate child of the Underworld!'

'Slythie?'

'YES!'

Rowena's hysteria was enough to disquiet even Hat. At a loss for anything else to say, he offered: 'Wimmin?'

'He's taken everything about me that was good and successful and turned it into this,' she said, hoarsely. 'Piece by piece, he's eating my soul.'

'Eating it?'

'Aye!'

'Whores!'

Settling down slightly into the same puddle of drunken remorse usually occupied by Hat, she continued, 'He's made me hate my job and dreams, Hat. He's made my life feel dull and monotonous and he's made me hex perfectly innocent students. Well, partially innocent. Well, she_ is _a bitch, but that's not the point. The point is…that…that…' She struggled for a few minutes to remember what the point was.

'Whores?' Hat suggested. 'Ale, wimmin?'

'No…'

'Ponies?'

'No.'

'Toboggan?'

'Tob – what? No, not that. No, the point is: when did karma decide that my possibly liking Salazar slightly more than what's healthy is a crime punishable by…this? My best friend's annoyed with me, my social circle's ruined, my conscious is being slowly eaten up from the inside while loathing and self-pity pour out of my - my ears, for god's sake! It's a Saturday! And I'm sat in a cupboard marking essays I don't know the answer to, drinking hard liquor, and…' Realisation occurred: 'And I'm talking to a hat!'

'Ach,' said Hat, defensively, 'you've never had it so good.'

Mumbling sadly into her hands, she confessed, 'I just…don't _like _him, exactly – not that it matters – but I sort of…_miss_ him? No I don't, I don't even like him. He's a stupid moron and I'm just an idiotic girl who can't separate her hormones from her work, that's how pathetic I am. Eugh…'

The room descended into silence, as Hat realised that a suggestion of either ale, wimmin or whores at that particular moment could result in a lethal attack.

Finally, Rowena surfaced from her thoughts and sat back in her chair. Very guardedly, she asked, 'When was the last time he talked to you, anyway?'

'Hm. Yesterday.'

'Did he mention…' The word "me" refused to come, so instead she finished: 'Anyone?'

'Not really.'

'Not even a student?'

'Not in so many words.'

'What did he say?'

'GET OUT OF MY WAY YOU SCURVY TIT!'

'Er,' said Rowena, sobering up slightly. 'Oh.'

'He kicked me down some stairs.'

'Oh. That's…that's not very nice.'

The brim of Hat curved upwards to form a kind of shrug. 'I was sucking a teacher's leg.'

'Oh. That's…alright then.'

'Aye. Well…'

Groggy, drunken silence once more. Rowena sighed. 'But,' she said, lost in her own train of thought, 'the thing that's so hard-hitting, spit-in-your-eye, bite-you-on-the-arse ironic is that they're actually…_perfect_ for each other. Not that it matters. It's not…I mean, I don't_ love_—'

Very loudly, and with very little tact, Hat cleared his throat.

Rowena froze and, without looking up, said, 'Oh.' A quick wave of sobering nausea flooded over her. _'Oh._ Ah. Um...how much of that did you hear, exactly?'

A voice by the door – a soft, female voice, with only the slightest undertones of venom detectable beneath the overtones of smug victory – said, 'Enough.' Heather perched herself on an overturned cupboard and added, 'Are you comfy, Miss?'


	20. Chapter 20: Who the Hell is Betty Lou?

**Chapter 20: Who the Hell is Betty-Lou?**

Salazar tapped the nib of his quill against the unmarked essay in front of him, flecking ink across the page as he did so.

He continued to tap away, eyes skimming vaguely over each alternate sentence, desperately trying to ignore the strange scrabbling noise coming from the window. "_Any potion brewed in under five minutes using only a…and the same applies to the brewer's hands. In this instance, I found…which may or may not be true for all potions of this nature…_"

Finally, the scrabbling noise appeared to stop. He paused and lowered the quill, counted to five and…

The scrabbling noise began again, slightly louder this time. Honestly. If he'd knock at the damn window, Salazar would let him in. But no – he was forced to carry on with this ridiculous charade of temporary deafness until His Holiness finally worked out how to lift the latch and appear stealthily by the fireplace. Cue shocked, admiring and awe-stricken gasps of surprise all around, and a massive ego-boost for He Who Can't For The Life Of Him Figure Out How To Open A Bloody Window.

Pillock.

He carried on skimming over the essay, doling out a surplus amount of ticks in red ink until the scrabbling noises stopped. There was a short sigh, a sound like metal scraping over brick, then a cool blast of air from outside and a muffled cry of "ooh – shit". Then a soft, careful noise as the window shut, a very tiny creak of floorboard and then a loud creak from by the fire place.

Then he cleared his throat.

Salazar finally looked up and raised his eyebrows in rehearsed surprise. 'Malfoy, is that you? I didn't even hear you come in.'

Xavier Malfoy, with windswept blonde hair and a slightly ruddy tinge to his usually pale skin, smiled knowingly. 'You weren't meant to.'

Relighting the candle the open window had extinguished, Salazar sat back in his chair and pushed the schoolwork to one side. 'You wanted to talk to me, then.'

Looking slightly perturbed that his moment of awe-stricken surprise had been so short-lived, Xavier merely nodded and brushed some of the dust from his immaculate sleeve.

'That's right. I'm rather curious as to how business is progressing for you here, Slytherin.'

'It's going fine.'

'Is it.' One disbelieving eyebrow twitched in a manner that Salazar's eyebrow simply couldn't match. 'You said you lost a student.'

'Just the one.'

'Someone else said you lost three.'

Damn. 'Who told you that?'

'I have my sources.'

'It was four, actually.'

'They're not very good sources.'

'Clearly.'

Malfoy reclined in the creaking sofa and delicately put his feet up. 'Were you planning to explain those losses at any point?'

Salazar shrugged. 'No.'

'Some would consider that a mistake on your part.'

He winced, very slightly. 'What kind of mistake?'

'The kind that results in your head falling off.'

'I hate those ones.'

'I don't.'

It was true; from what Salazar had seen, he enjoyed them far too much. Fair enough, the Slytherin family was hardly free of bastards – and he'd know – but it took a certain kind of depravity to reach Malfoy level.

Eventually Salazar replied, with a curt shrug and an eyebrow twitch, 'I don't know. Family tragedies.'

'Perhaps I should explain,' said Malfoy, with a calculated coldness, 'That, as a pro-active and involved member of the local community, I'm very curious as to what has happened to these children. Perhaps I should also explain that, as the owner of the land this castle is built on, I am _very _curious as to what happened to these children. And perhaps I should explain that, as your primary benefactor in this business, my curiosity about the lives of these children is almost through the roof…Do you understand?'

Looking him directly in the eye, Salazar said: 'You're very curious about young children.'

Surprisingly, Malfoy didn't crack a grin.

'Dead,' said Salazar, relenting at last. 'They're dead.'

Malfoy straightened up in his chair; evidently, it hadn't been the answer he was expecting. 'Dead?'

'Two are. The other two have had family members die, so they can't afford the teaching. Either way their attendance records have plummeted.'

Malfoy seemed to consider this for a while. He picked up a hand mirror from the table beside him and examined it closely while his brain processed the information. Then he replaced the mirror and said, 'Interesting.'

'I thought so.'

'There was a man found dead between this castle and the village some time last week.'

'That's true.'

'Was that you?'

'Found dead? No.'

'You know what I mean.'

'No. That wasn't me. You?'

'No. Before that…' Malfoy cast his mind back for a while, leaving Salazar to wait in silence. As much as he hated to admit it, Malfoy was probably a lot more knowledgeable about outside events than he was. 'Before that, a man was found dead by that forest of yours, but that was weeks ago. Know anything about that?'

'No.'

'And the students…' He frowned in concentration, then announced, 'There was a funeral yesterday—'

'Two funerals. I was there.'

'Just you?'

'I didn't tell anyone else.'

'Did you do those?'

'No.' In response to Malfoy's unbelieving glare, he added, 'I haven't killed anyone in ages. The last time it nearly happened was _your _fault, if you remember.'

'Oh yes. Not since then? I'm disappointed.'

'Return to subject, please.'

'Which was…?'

'The dead students.'

'Oh yes. Who were they?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Not in my house. Gryffindor's, I think.'

Malfoy spat at the mention of the name. To be precise, he spat at Salazar's very expensive silver-plated hat stand.

After a dignified pause, Salazar said, 'Thanks.'

'And how did they die?'

'No idea; didn't catch that part.'

'Mauled?'

'Could have been.' Though exactly how he got to "mauled" from "no idea" was beyond the reach of logic. 'It was a very nice funeral, either way.'

'Mudbloods?'

'Possibly.'

'You didn't check?'

'I thought it distasteful to ask.'

'Oh, it was only a funeral. They'll have more.'

'That's one way of looking at it.'

Malfoy stared into the fire for a while further, furrowing his brows in contemplation while Salazar merely waited for him to finish. Then he sat up and said, 'Right, now onto more important matters. Where's your lady friend?'

'Hm? Er…in her office, I expect.'

A sneer spread across his pale and pointy face. 'I was referring to dear Heather.'

Shit. 'In bed.'

'Who were _you _referring to?'

'I just didn't realise you knew all the intimate details of my love life.'

Malfoy wrinkled his nose at the reference. '"_Love_"?'

'It's a turn of phrase.'

'I know much more about Heather than you might think,' he said, with an all-knowing smirk. The all-knowing-ness was undercut slightly by the realisation that his hair was still windswept, which he quickly endeavoured to correct.

Salazar winced slightly. 'Really.'

'Oh yes. Age, appearance, hat size—'

'You've measured her head?'

'It's another turn of phrase.'

'I don't think it is.'

'Be quiet.'

'What do you know about Heather?'

'Quite a large head.'

Salazar resisted the urge to kill someone. The sky was beginning to lighten as dawn appeared, washing the black sky blue. Somewhere, a bird was tweeting.

Salazar attempted subtlety: 'Well, I'm sure you have plenty of maidens to be dissecting, don't let me keep you—'

'Speaking of which,' Malfoy interrupted, a small grin shaping his lips, 'how _is _my favourite stooge? That lovely…what's her name – Bronwyn Birdfoot?'

'Rowena Ravenclaw,' he mumbled, fairly sure he was walking into a trap. 'I'm sure she's fine.'

'How's she coping with all these deaths? Must be playing havoc with her cheery demeanour.'

'Fine,' he said again. His brain added: Though she has been spending a lot of time in cupboards recently.

'I wouldn't worry too much about her; I'm sure there's still opportunity for you to raise children together on a hilltop.' Salazar didn't reply, so he continued, 'Possibly on a farm…although I always imagined you two weaving together in your old age. I suppose you could still have Betty-Lou help you out on weekends.'

He sighed. 'Who the hell is Betty-Lou?'

'Your eldest,' he replied simply.

'Right. Of course it is. Anyway, the sun's rising and I'm sure you don't want to melt, so—'

'She has your eyes.' He performed a dreamy sigh. 'But Ravenclaw's complexion. Oh, you really must stop worrying about the way she blushes, old boy. Her attraction to me was merely due to my overwhelming sense of sexuality, which must have made a nice change from this place, which just isn't a healthy environment for a growing girl.'

'I'm sure she'll survive,' he muttered.

Xavier pretended to give him a scrutinizing look, and said, 'I don't know…not much to look at around here. You could at least shave.'

'Hmpf,' said Salazar – which, he realised, wasn't the wittiest or most articulate comeback available to him.

Xavier began to pick at his nails idly. 'I've known you since infancy, and I can honestly claim you've never struck me as being remotely attractive.'

'I'm glad to hear it. I suspect your fiancé would be, as well.'

'Oh yes. Her.'

Salazar glanced out of the window – he hadn't even shut it properly, the idle bastard – and briefly considered grabbing his old friend by the leg and throwing him bodily into the lake. He could have his ladder back while he was there.

'How is your finacé?' Salazar asked, with only the slightest passing interest.

Malfoy sneered again, and sat back in the chair. 'Fine,' he said. 'How's _yours?_'

* * *

Rowena stared silently at the overbearing figure of Heather Bettany, mouth slightly agape. Heather stared back. She smiled.

'You don't look comfortable,' said Heather.

''M fine,' Rowena mumbled.

'Don't you want to stand up?'

'No.' There was a reason it was called "legless"; even in her newly sobered state, the thought of stumbling to her feet in front of Satan's lovechild was enough to turn her stomach. Instead she stared up at It, attempting to look as superior as was possible for someone who'd just been discovered talking to a hat.

'I thought I ought to find you, Miss,' said Heather. 'People were beginning to wonder where you were.'

'Hmpf…really?'

'Yes.' Something about the saccharin-sweet tone of her voice said otherwise. 'I'm sure people are always asking themselves where Miss Ravenclaw is – why she isn't doing her job properly.'

And there it was. Would now be an inappropriate moment to be violently sick? Would now be a bad time to shove a pie down her throat and grind salt in her eyes?

'Oh,' she said at last.

'And don't bother trying to be the superior teacher, Miss. It's a bit late for that.'

'And don't bother trying to be the snotty infant, Heather, I'm already familiar.' Damn! Wasn't meant to say that. SHUT-UP-ROWENA.

Judging by the position of Heather's eyebrows, and Hat's brief chorus of "fight, fight, fight, WHORES", it was certainly the wrong thing to say.

'Alright then,' she said, ignoring the talking rag. 'Let's talk like grown-ups, shall we?'

'Alright.' I can't, said the tiny voice of Rowena's subconscious, I can't, I can't, I can't. I want to be sick. I want to kill you. Do you not realise how much I want to kill you? Of course you do, that's why you're here. Dammit.

'You haven't been in the staff room recently, have you?' Heather asked. 'You've missed some pretty important stuff.'

'How would you know?'

'I go to meetings.'

Rowena attempt to scoff, and accidentally spat on herself. 'You can't go to meetings,' she said, subtly wiping it off. 'You're not a teacher.'

'I'm the student representative of Slytherin house.'

'We don't have – do we?'

'Slytherin does.'

'Oh. Well he _would_.'

'It's just _nice_,' she said, 'talking to people who actually care about the school. Being one amongst the _important_ people. You know?'

'Is it _nice _being the only person who has to bonk a teacher to get invited along?'

Heather raised a smile. '"Bonk"?'

'Yes,' Rowena snapped, 'bonk. It's a lovely word our Lord gave us to describe what some people do to feel important – and thank God I never got so desperate!'

The "fight" chorus struck up again, until Rowena beat him with her shoe.

'Funny,' said Heather, 'that's not what I heard.'

Dammit again! Not the cupboard time – not the party time – not the kissing time, he _wouldn't!_ They had an understanding!

Putting a lot of effort into keeping her voice steady, she replied, 'Really.'

'Yep. Sally tells me everything, you know.'

'Does he? That's nice of him.' With a sudden surge of venom, she added, 'I bet he didn't tell you who gave him that nickname.' The darkness disguised Heather's reaction, but Rowena was fairly confident it wasn't of a positive nature. 'How did you know I was here, anyway? I'm sure it's against school rules to follow your teachers.'

'And it's probably against school rules to set your students on fire.'

Rowena cocked a superior eyebrow and said, 'It isn't, actually – I checked.'

'The hoary old rag-thing told me, if you must know.'

'Hoary old…? Hat! You traitor!'

Hat dodged behind an abandoned bookshelf with the kind of dexterity not usually seen in someone quite so drunk, with a cry of "Ach, it meant nothin'!" and a muffled curse.

'Judas,' Rowena hissed after him. 'No more ale for you, you…tart!'

'Don't let me interrupt,' said Heather, with a superior smile.

'Don't worry, I won't! You're not going back to Hogsmeade brothel as long as you live, you swine! I don't care how much you cry. Treacherous, lecherous, odorous…git!' She turned back to Heather. 'And what do you _want_, exactly? Your massive forehead's blocking out my light.'

Oh dear God, said her subconscious, there's no going back now. We're going to kill each other right here.

'I want you out of the school.'

'I want _you _out of the atmosphere!'

'And I want to kick you sharply in the shins for _setting me on fire all day!_'

'Then do it! I'll just have you expelled!'

'And I want to talk to you about all your dead students.'

'You—' She froze. Suddenly, the small, dark cupboard was smaller and darker. 'All my what?'

Heather ran a finger through the dust and, very calmly, said, 'All those dead students Sally never told you about. I think there were two of them—'

'No,' Rowena interrupted desperately. 'No, no students have died – there was one parent, but that's—'

'Two parents. As we were discussing at the last meeting—'

'Shut up about your bloody meetings! What happened to the students?'

'I don't know. They died.'

'But how? Who…where? What—?'

'They weren't yours,' she said, with a slight shrug. 'And I don't know who they are. Were. Young, I think. Sort of…eaten.'

'Eaten?'

'Cut up in some way, I'm sure. They carried them out at night time, and—'

'Who did it?'

She shrugged again. 'I've no idea. It's not as if we have a hairy man-boy running around the grounds every full moon with an appetite for blood, do we?'

Rowena's insides churned to a halt.

'Certainly,' Heather said, very slowly, 'no one I know about. Do you?'

A werewolf…not Godric? Not Helga's Godric?...Oh God, poor Helga! Poor Godric – but especially poor Helga!

'Of course,' Heather began, 'I—'

'Shut up. You poisonous tramp. Go away!'

'No need to be such a nasty drunk, Miss.'

'Professor,' Rowena snapped, staring at her own knees while her brain worked very hard at not getting anywhere at all. Just Godric – Helga – werewolf, and dead children – full moon – he couldn't have – he's Godric!

Heather slipped carefully from the table and to her feet; dust swirled in her wake, illuminated by the outside candlelight. She kneeled before Rowena, a menacingly playful smile on her lips, and whispered: 'I'll let you investigate that one.'

And then there was light.

* * *

Xavier Malfoy, Lord of all that was wrong with the world, left. He took his ladder with him.

Salazar watched him walk – no, strut – out of sight from the window, which wasn't difficult considering it's proximity to the ground. If Malfoy had been built like anything sturdier than, say, a water sprite, he'd probably be able to climb up the outside wall. But no; ladders had so much more finesse.

What an utter cocknob that man was.

What a disgrace to the aristocracy.

What a shame to the forces of darkness.

What a tit.

Salazar left in the direction of his office, mind buzzing with a thousand curses, and wondered what happened to his dignity.

No, not dignity – what was the word? Money, that was it. What happened to his money? When did life deem it fair that he should spend the rest of his life persuading the Malfoys to invest in everything he did?

Probably around the same time he'd killed his own grandfather, now he thought about it.

Well, it wasn't as if his parents had ever been so fond – surely it warranted a raise in allowance, if anything?

No, he supposed, that probably wasn't the point. There was something wrong in killing everyone who didn't treat him nicely though, wasn't there? Alright, he'd learnt that now. Now the prophecies had been handed out and the income had stopped. Now the rest of his life had been scripted and ruined. That was really a very fair punishment, wasn't it?

Now that he – shit, shouldn't have kicked that – had absolutely no chance of reform, because that was just an example of fairness, wasn't it? Condemning him without a chance of escape. Thank you so very much, grandfather. Thank you very, very much.

* * *

The cupboard door had opened; Rowena and Heather were caught and blinded by the light of the corridor, and there stood—

'Sal—?'

'Anatole!' said Rowena, recognising the Defence teacher at once.

Heather groaned, failing to disguise her disappointment, and jumped to her feet. 'Oh, it's you, Professor.'

'Yes,' he said, with the uneasy realisation that he'd just interrupted something strange and was clueless as to what it was. 'It's me. I'm just making a routine—' he squinted with the effort of imagination, '—cupboard check, and…ah…fate brought me to your…cupboard. Are you alright?'

Rowena nodded, hoping that if she did so enough she could make some of her headache go away.

Heather shrugged. 'Just on my way to my dormitory.'

'And you got lost in a cupboard?'

'Yes.'

'Alright.'

'Can I go?'

'If Professor Ravenclaw says so, yes.'

Rowena said yes very quickly and so, with a final look of contempt, Heather Bettany flounced away.

Anatole said, 'What an interesting flounce that girl's got.'

'Hmpf,' Rowena managed to say.

With the door still open behind him, Anatole sat down opposite her. His sturdy, friendly features were invisible in the darkness, though the corridor's candlelight gave Rowena a silhouette to talk to.

Sturdy, friendly features. Like a table.

'Are you alright?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Rowena, in as much of a normal voice as she could manage. 'Do I look drunk?'

'A bit.'

'Well I'm not.'

'No?'

'I'm hung-over.'

'That's certainly preferable.'

'I disagree.'

'Well, it is for a teacher.'

Rowena groaned.

'Sorry. Is that a bad word?'

'Yes.'

'Alright. I won't say it again.'

A slightly uncomfortable silence passed. Then Rowena said, 'You're probably wondering why I'm in a cupboard.'

Anatole shrugged. 'I am a bit curious.'

'Well—'

'You don't have to explain.'

'—thank Christy. My head kills. Er, do you think you could keep this—?'

'I will.'

'Promise?'

'Promise. Want a hand?'

'Ha! I'm perfectly capable of…of…where's the floor gone?'

'Give me your hand.'

'Eugh. They're crispy.'

'Sorry.'

'Oh – sorry. I thought I was just thinking that.'

'Quite alright.'

Rowena was dragged to her feet, and found herself eye-to-eye with Anatole Amery. It was a pleasant change; with Salazar, she was usually eye-to-jugular. And though Anatole may have been shorter, his hands may have been crispier and his attempt to drag someone to their feet was a lot more painful, at least she could stare at him without getting a stiff neck.

'Are you alright?' he asked again.

'Yupsies. What time is it?'

'Er – three. Ish. Shall I walk you to your tower, or—?'

'No, because if he's eaten anyone, we're all done for.'

Anatole watched her stumble away down the corridor, looking as confused as he felt. Not only because he'd discovered her in a cupboard with a student; not only because she smelt of fried apples; not only because she didn't make much sense when she spoke; but also because what appeared to be a potato sack had just asked him if he was a whore.

And that kind of thing just wasn't usual.


	21. Chapter 21: Up a Tree

**Chapter 21: Up a Tree**

Alright, so the week hadn't exactly gotten off to a perfect start: Saturday (and some of Sunday) had been spent in a cupboard, somewhere between all-too drunk and far-too sober; Sunday (and most of Monday) had been spent either marking essays on jam or teaching classes about jam or talking about jam or dreaming about jam.

Then Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday had been spent in a state of extreme annoyance as Rowena realised they weren't supposed to cover jam until _next _month, and she'd wasted at least three weeks of her life thinking about burnt fingers and strawberry seeds.

On the plus side, Heather hadn't been turning up to any of her lessons; hopefully she'd contacted a hideous wasting disease and passed away during the night. A more likely solution was that she'd merely started avoiding cookery lessons, and this was just as satisfactory in Rowena's mind.

On the minus side, Helga was attending the cookery lessons but merely hitting Rowena with an strict, angry silence. Quite rightly, she supposed.

And how exactly does one tell one's best friend that her ex-boyfriend is potentially responsible for the deaths of two students? In the world of Ravenclaw, they do the cowardly thing and just don't say anything, but bash their heads against the wall at every opportunity until an idea arrives.

So far, no luck.

On what was sort-of a plus side, Heather hadn't been spotted at the recent staff meetings. And Rowena knew, because she'd been attending in her place. So put that in your pipe and smoke it until your lungs collapse, you large-headed girl-child.

'Alright,' said Godric, to the motley crew of staff present, 'I'm sure you've been noting absences in your lessons as often as possible, but I would be extremely gratified if you could actually mark these absences down. You, for example, Professor Ravenclaw—'

Rowena looked up and saw a potential killer; Godric looked down and saw his ex-girlfriend's strongest ally.

'Oh – never mind that,' he said, with an apparent change of mind. 'Attendance isn't really very…Alright. Would anyone else like to raise an issue for discussion?'

A very small look was exchanged between the staff, and an old lady – the function of whom Rowena wasn't completely aware of – dropped her spectacles. Other than that, the room was silent.

'No one?' said Godric.

A voice from the back of the room said, 'We could talk about those deaths, if you fancy.'

Godric cleared his throat and, slightly louder, said, 'No one? Very well, we'll—'

'Are you playing hard to get?'

'—just leave it at that, then. Same time next Thursday; thank you for attending.'

With a scrape of chairs and a swish of capes, the room quickly began to filter; Godric lead the way at a jog.

Anatole Amery, appearing at Rowena's shoulder before she had time to escape, said, 'Are you alright today, Professor?'

'Er – yes, thanks,' she said, darting a very quick glance over her shoulder. As quick as it was, it didn't escape the smirk of Salazar Slytherin. And it would probably be rude to punch Anatole in the teeth and run over his unconscious body to escape, wouldn't it?

'I'm glad to hear it,' he said, none the wiser to those violent inner-thoughts she was so seriously beginning to consider. 'You look a lot better, if you don't mind me saying so, Professor.'

'Er – call me Ro. Or Rowena, or something. And, er…thank you.'

'Alright, I will. Can I walk you to your next lesson?'

'No,' she said quickly, aware that her face had just turned a funny colour and even more aware that someone at the back of the room was watching her very intently, and probably with a sneer. 'I mean – no thank you, Professor. I'm not teaching again until the evening.'

'Alright, but please call me Anatole. Or any abbreviation you prefer, really—'

'Alright, well I'd better—'

'I could walk with you to lunch, if you'd like?'

'Well, I really think that—'

And then the voice of doom said, 'No offence, Annie, but I think she's trying to get rid of you.'

Rowena screwed up her eyes very tightly. Then she did the same thing with her brain.

Anatole turned around, 'Er…I'm sorry, Professor Slytherin?'

Salazar didn't say anything; Rowena imagined there was an elevated eyebrow involved somewhere.

'Er,' said Anatole, 'I suppose, er, that Annie _is_ an abbreviation of Anatole, yes...ha…well, Ro—'

'Yes,' said Rowena, very quickly, 'I'll see you later, Anatole. Bye-bye.'

'Oh. Er—'

'Told you,' said Salazar.

'Yes,' he said, stiffly. 'Thank you, Professor.'

'Call me Salazar. Or any abbreviation you prefer, really.'

'Erm, well—'

'Go on, shortarse. Move.'

'Bye-bye,' said Rowena again, apologetically.

'Yes,' said Anatole, 'er…see you.'

It wasn't until he was safely out of harm's way that Rowena risked opening her eyes, and another short while until she actually turned around. Then a few more seconds passed while she absorbed Slytherin's presence – against the wall with a small grin, as she suspected, with a raised brow and folded arms, as she expected – before she declared, 'That was very nasty.'

'What?' he asked, with mock-defensiveness. 'He told me I could call him Annie.'

'But there was no reason to call him shortarse.'

'There was.' He listed them with his fingers: 'He's short. He's got an arse.'

'Oh dear.'

'Besides: no flirting between lessons. It's in Godders' handbook.'

'Oh dear,' she said again. There was a sort-of silence that wasn't really a silence, as Rowena could still hear her heart thumping.

Eventually, Salazar removed himself from the wall and said, 'Well then, I'd better be—'

'What about these deaths?'

'Deaths?' He resumed his position against the wall and shrugged. 'I don't know. What about them?'

'Well—you—' It _had _to be Slytherin, didn't it? No one else would accuse Godric of flirting with him during a staff meeting. 'You said we should talk about the…death issue.'

'Did I? Alright. Better close that door, then.'

Rowena obediently did so, and then cursed herself for it. She'd done as he said. She'd done it without thinking. She'd done something to make that smirk re-appear, and now she was trapped in a room with it.

'Very good,' said Salazar, his voice as patronizing as was physically possible. 'Take a seat.'

'I'll stand,' she replied, in an admittedly rather feeble display of determination. She glanced briefly around the room and, with a tiny groan, realised her exact location.

Salazar grinned. 'Ah, sweet memories. They never fixed that store cupboard, did they? You can still see where it hit the floor.'

'Neugh,' said Rowena. She wasn't entirely sure what it meant either.

'But enough of that reminiscing. Let's talk about death – it's the safest option.'

'Well,' she said, stepping away from the restored cupboard which had played prison just a few weeks before, 'I don't know much about them, but – what do you mean, "safest"?'

He grinned again. 'Least likely to result in an encounter of a passionate nature.'

'Are you quite sane?'

'I think so. I don't know. Maybe. Continue.'

'Well…two died.'

'Did they?'

'Yes – I thought you knew this?'

'Do I?' he asked, theatrically.

'Yes, you – you said so!'

'Did I? No, I don't think I did.'

'Well, you - implied it,' she insisted.

'When?'

'When you…but – what?'

'What?'

'_What?_'

'What?'

Rowena sat down. 'I'm very confused.'

'Yes, but you're also sat down. Good girl. Yes, two people died—'

'Huh?'

Salazar gave her a look that was sympathetic and dangerously patronizing. It seemed he was in that kind of mood. He explained, 'That was all a long, elaborate charade to trick you into sitting down, now listen: Two men died, both near Hogsmeade. And someone else died in the forest, but I don't know who he is. To conclude—'

'What?' Rowena's mind reeled. She stood up, as if the act would enlighten her, and, off Salazar's annoyed expression, sat down again.

'Something wrong, Ravenclaw?'

'I thought…I thought it was two students who'd died?'

It was Slytherin's turn to pause. His eyebrows narrowed, as if in annoyance. 'What?'

'Two students,' she repeated. 'Two students died, didn't they? I thought—'

'Who told you that?'

'Well…Heather did.'

'Heather? What, the…blonde Heather?'

'What an adorable term of affection.'

'Don't – what?' He paused again, and stared at the wall. Rowena peered at him questioningly.

'Yes?' she prompted.

After another long pause, filled by the chatter of students passing outside, Salazar rejoined the here and now to demand, 'Heather told you?'

'Yes.' The part of her brain labelled "common sense" told her not to add anything to the statement, but the part of her brain labelled "seething, bitter hatred" told her to rant on. 'Yes, she did. She confronted me about it and all sorts! In the early hours of the morning, she burst into my cupboard— _office_, and started smart-mouthing me when I was in frankly no fit state to respond with anything witty, although I think I might have told her she she has a big forehead _which_, incidentally, she does.'

Salazar's eyebrows twitched involuntarily. He stared at the wall. 'How did she know?'

'I don't know,' said Rowena, shortly; clearly, he didn't understand how much she disliked the girl. 'I think she said you told her.'

'I told her?'

'Yeah. Didn't you?'

She took his silence to mean "no". She couldn't help but feel a twang of sympathy for the flicker of dejection that crossed his face. She couldn't help the twang of anger that followed, either. Nor the gentle swoop of depression, followed by the sharp prod of annoyance. It was a general assault of emotion.

'Anyway,' she said eventually, to break the silence. Salazar straightened up and resumed his sneer, at nothing in particular. 'Are you going to tell me about these murders or not?'

'Are they murders now?'

'Well – no. Well, I don't know. Do you think…?'

Salazar shrugged. The words "GODRIC GRYFFINDOR IS A BLOOD THIRSTY KILLER WITH A BODY HAIR PROBLEM ONCE A FULL MOON" hung in the air between them. Words to that effect, anyway.

Rowena said, 'I'd better get some lunch, then.'

'Lost interest already?'

'No, but you're hardly being helpful.'

'Godders is a werewolf.'

'I know.'

Salazar cocked the other eyebrow. 'You know?'

'Yeah. Helga told me.'

'Damn.'

'Sorry.'

'That was the only weapon in my armoury, as well.' In response to her look of confusion, he explained, 'I've been hanging that over his head for years.'

'_Years?_ Really?'

'Ever since he was a puppy.' Much to Rowena's increasing confusion, he chuckled. 'Godders,' he said, 'is a Doggers.' He laughed again.

Rowena rolled her eyes. 'Dear lord. At least we've moved on from "Ravensnore".'

'That was a classic.'

'How much time do you devote to thinking these names up?'

'It's the last thing I think about before I go to sleep.'

'While you're suspended upside down from the ceiling in a cocoon of your own flesh?'

'Yep.'

'Do you love Heather?'

'What?'

He stared at Rowena while she burned a funny pink colour and stared at the floor. A parade of people chanting "shit!" marched repeatedly through her mind, waving banners and placards of pictures of excrement.

Then nobody moved. And there was silence. The question still hung, unanswered, in the air, and Rowena just sort of shrugged.

Then Salazar said, 'Well, I've told you everything I know. When are you teaching again?'

'Er,' said Rowena, in a small voice, 'evening.'

'Ok. Well. Bye, then.'

'Yeah,' said Rowena, as the door closed after him. 'Yeah.'

Then she bashed her head against the wall.

* * *

In an ideal world, Godric Gryffindor would have better things to do with his Thursdays than brood.

In an ideal world, he wouldn't turn into a dog once a month and chase his own arse, but that's life for you.

When someone knocked at his door he flinched, and fought the urge to growl and bark. Instead he took a deep breath and said, 'Yes?'

'Professor, can I borrow your sword?'

He glanced at the sword that glinted serenely in the corner of his office. 'What are you going to use it for?'

'Stabbing Henry.'

'No.' It was a very commanding No. It was the kind of No people responded to – generally on a battlefield, but sometimes in a common room. Either way, sharp objects were usually involved.

'Alright,' said the Henry-stabber. And because the No was the kind that demanded respect, he added, 'Sorry.'

'Now run along a learn a moral lesson.'

The Henry-stabber did, at speed.

So…perhaps he was a murderer. He'd definitely found meat in his mouth once or twice, and it didn't taste like chicken. Of course, it wasn't his fault really – he could tell himself it wasn't his fault very easily, that was fine. It was when he started believing it that he needed to worry, because who knew what he could get away with if he really believed it.

It wasn't Slytherin's fault, either. Not really. Well, actually, it was. But that was no excuse to hunt him down and murder him, he supposed – regardless of all he'd done, and what a great justice he'd be doing to the world, and—

_No_, but it _wasn't his fault_. _It wasn't_.

And it wasn't Helga's fault. God he'd messed up then, hadn't he? In all fairness to himself, she had confronted him with the possibility that she might be giving birth to a litter of…what? Half-human, hairy defects? But then, in all fairness to her, it was probably the kind of thing he should have mentioned before any sexual transaction occurred.

He threw a cleanly-picked chicken bone at the fireplace and heaved a heavy sigh. If there was no divine purpose to his life, he'd be mightily annoyed.

* * *

Rowena's head hit a lot of walls during her walk from the abandoned classroom-cum-staffroom-cum-place of ritual humiliation. She received one or two quizzical glances, but it was hardly anything she was going to worry about: with enough beatings, her skull would become thick and durable, saving her a small fortune in helmets, and oh shut up.

She reached the great outdoors and changed her target to trees. The birds were upset, but no one else seemed to mind. Then she sat down heavily in her usual position at the edge of the lake and sighed.

'What an idiotic boob,' she mumbled.

'I agree.'

'Thanks.' A few seconds later, her eyes widened with shock and she leapt to her feet, stumbling towards the lake without so much as a backwards glance at her previous spot.

Very slowly, casting her eye around for signs of life, she walked back to the wood's outskirts and ventured, 'Hello?'

'Hello,' said a voice from above, with mock-sincerity.

'What the hell are you doing up there?'

'Why do you ask?'

'Because…because you're up a tree!'

Xavier Malfoy – of _all people _– smiled. He was sprawled comfortably across the limb of a willow tree with a Cheshire Cat smile, golden hair delicately ruffled in a way that was meant to denote healthy athleticism and disregard for personal appearance, but actually denoted a careful and calculated placement of hair to achieve this effect.

He flicked a strand of hair from his eyes and said, 'And how are you today?'

Rowena blinked, taken by the oddity of the situation. Had she hit her head too hard? Was this a worrying visual hallucination? Or was Xavier Malfoy, the man last seen goading Salazar into a rigged fight to the death, really up a tree?

'Erm…I'm fine, thank you.'

'It's a bit chilly. Shouldn't you be wearing a shawl or something?'

'I…appreciate the concern, er…' She blinked again, waiting for him to vanish. 'I actually lost my shawl a couple of days ago, er…'

'Oh dear. No clue?'

'Well – I think it probably got tidied away by the cleaners.'

'Ah yes; the most logical conclusion is often the correct one.'

'Ye-es. Yes. Er. Yes. Am I disturbing you at all?'

'No, not at all. Do sit down.'

'Erm – I – no, thanks. Are you…? No.' The day was strange. 'Do you want me for something?'

The eyebrows cocked suggestively, and a sudden mischievous smile appeared on his lips. 'Do you want _me_ for something?'

Then Rowena realised that nothing from her own imagination could be quite so perverse.

'Get out of that tree this instant, you horrible little man, before I drag you out! Five, four, three, _two_—!'

He landed on the floor – unfortunately unharmed – and began to calmly wipe the dust from his clothes to cover the indignity of his action.

Rowena seethed. This was the man who'd started it all! The downfall of the empire, the ruin of all possible civility between her and Slytherin! The one who'd – who'd – well, frankly he was a bastard, and not the kind of man you want to find up a tree!

'What were you doing up there?' she demanded, taking a step towards him.

This time he didn't react, but merely looked her up and down with a long, judgemental sweeping motion. 'I like to make an entrance.'

'Yes, but up a tree? That's – that's no place for humans!'

Malfoy looked smug.

'I mean,' she continued, desperately, 'how long were you up there?'

'Long enough to see down your blouse.'

This time he did react, and scampered behind the tree just in time to avoid a severe beating. Rowena was really in that kind of mood.

'Alright, alright!' he shouted, from the other side of the willow. 'I'll stop! I have some information for you!'

She stood still, and glared at the tree impatiently. 'Go on.'

'Alright.' He peered out from behind the trunk and, seeing that she'd ceased her murderous rampage, stepped out into the light. He brushed his sleeves down again. 'Jesus Christ,' he muttered. 'What's gotten into you today?'

'The urge to kill. Now talk.'

'I can't help but notice,' he said, agitation clear in his voice, 'that your demeanour has changed somewhat since I last saw you.'

He was right. Rowena wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. 'Well done. Now tell me something I don't know.'

'Those children that died,' he said, casually taking a seat on what was usually Rowena's bench, 'one of them was a mudblood.'

'What?'

'Mudblood,' he repeated. 'Mudblood, mudblood, filthy little mudblood. Fantastic word; rolls straight off the tongue.'

'My best friend's a half-blood,' Rowena hissed, taking a step towards him.

Malfoy didn't flinch, but looked slightly pensive and said, 'Oh yes, I haven't seen much of her recently.'

'What?'

'I'd hate to think you were incapable of maintaining a solid friendship.'

Rowena was fairly sure she growled. 'Get back to the students.'

'What? Oh, that's it.'

'That's it?'

'Yep. One of them was a mudblood. Filthy, inbred mudblood.'

'Although your accusation of inbreeding is clearly flawed to begin with, I'm going to give you five seconds to make that statement relevant before I insert something somewhere painful.'

Malfoy raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Oh, _are_ you now?", but spoke quickly as if to say, "Bollocks, you really are": 'Mudblood – only one of them was a mudblood. Only one. The other one was pure as you like, and a real shame to the pureblood community – oh and there's been another death you don't know about, in fact they're happening all over the place.'

Rowena folded her arms and stared at him levelly. 'Are you telling the truth?'

'Cross my icy black heart.'

'And that's all you know?'

'Well…' The all-knowing smile returned. 'I do know one more thing.'

'What?'

'Gryffindor,' he said calmly, 'is a werewolf.'

'Oh – I know.'

His eyebrows dropped. 'You know?'

'Yes, I know,' she said, impatiently. 'Everybody knows.'

'Oh.' The smile wavered, but then quickly returned as he said, 'You didn't know about the students though, did you?'

'Hm. Only one of them is half-blood?' she repeated, attempting to see the relevance of the statement.

'_Was_ half-blood,' he said, with too much of a smile. 'I believe he's now a _no_-blood.'

Rowena looked down at her feet and said, 'I'm saying this once, Malfoy, and I'm saying it very slowly so you can understand me: If you ever make that joke again in my presence, I will slowly separate all your joints from your flesh, starting with your little toes and working upwards towards the thighs, then the fingers, then the ears. And then I will push them all individually up your most private orifice until I hit a lung. Understand?'

Malfoy laughed. Then he realised that, with the aid of magic, all of what she'd just threatened was perfectly possible. 'Understood.'

'Now bugger off.'

'Yes, well – if you ever need me—'

'Go.'

'Right.' With a final twitch of the eyebrow, he turned on his heel and strutted into the forest like a woodland pimp, until the blonde bob of his hair vanished between the trees.

Rowena sat down and stared at the lake. Once she was sure there was no one in earshot, she said, 'Eugh. That was disgusting.'

Orifice, indeed.


	22. Chapter 22: Friends, Girlfriends, Snouts

**Chapter 22: The Problem with Friends/Girlfriends/Snouts**

The friendship of Helga Hufflepuff was a difficult thing to recapture. It required heart-felt apologies, a sincere wish for forgiveness and an admission of all one's mistakes.

Throwing an onion bahji at her bottom was not the standard way of going about things. Fortunately for Rowena Ravenclaw, however, the practise proved successful; after breaking down into an ridiculous frenzy of tears and generally working herself into such a pitiable state that you'd need a heart of stone to snub her, Helga managed to say, 'Ok, stop it Ro – Ro, stop – please, you're upsetting people. I forgive you! – Just stop it,' and all was well with the world.

One day she'd explain that the throwing of the bahji was the accidental outcome of a wrestle with the Divination teacher at the lunch table, rather than – as Helga preferred to see it – the physical manifestation of a plea for forgiveness and desire for her company.

One day she'd explain. When at least one of them was dead.

Until such a time came, Rowena benefited greatly from reeling off a list of all the problems she'd accumulated since they last spoke – excluding the ones about a certain Mr Gryffindor, which she conveniently skimmed over – while they lounged about her office between lessons.

Once Rowena had finished speaking, with a cathartic sigh, Helga paused thoughtfully and wrapped a strand of hair around her finger.

Then she said, 'Up a tree?'

'Yes!'

She unfurled the yellowy curl, which bounced back magnificently. 'In the cupboard?'

'Yes!'

'My God.'

'I know. D'you ever get that feeling that you're – kind of…' She twisted her hands into head-shaped puppets and banged them together, with hope of articulation.

'Violent snogging?' Helga suggested.

'No. I wish. I mean – ever get that feeling where you kind of step back and look at what's happening and think "how the hell did I get here?" And not in a good way.'

'Often.'

'How did I get in a cupboard with a Glaswegian hat and Slytherin's itsy-bitsy girlfriend? How did I get into a secret criminal auction and clubbed to near-unconsciousness with a stuffed cat? How did Malfoy get up that tree?' She frowned and lowered her puppet-hands. 'How _did _he get up that tree?'

'I'm sure he has his…Ways.'

'His Ways?'

'Mysterious Ways and Methods.' She shrugged. 'One minute you're in idle chatter, the next you're spread-eagled on a blanket in the woods, rutting about amongst the trees whilst throthing blissfully.'

Rowena's jaw dropped slightly. 'What story were you listening to?'

'Hm? Oh…ignore me.' Realising exactly what she'd just said, she repeated, '_Ignore me_. Really. Dear God! I must be desperately lonely.'

'You don't need to be lonely,' said Rowena, sitting up. 'You've got me to fulfil your emotional needs, and Finkles to fulfil your sexual ones.'

'What – my owl?'

'Stranger things have happened.'

'Not in the Hufflepuff household they haven't!' Then she paused, in remembrance of cross-dressing, hair-collecting, war-waging, wife-stealing badger enthusiast, Uncle Ulrich. 'Well, it'd be a close second. Besides, I think Finkles is dead.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

'It's alright. He's already died seven times in the last three years.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yep. He's a biological miracle.'

'Oh. That's…nice – anyway, what do you think I should do about this Heather situation?'

Helga returned her attention to her hair. 'I can't believe you asked Slytherin if he loved her.'

'I know,' said Rowena, with a wince. 'I feel like such a idiot.'

'So you should. Why did you even ask?'

'I don't know,' she replied honestly. 'Morbid curiosity? Picking a scab? Emotional suicide? Take your pick.'

'You don't…' She wrinkled her nose.

'Don't what? Smell? What?'

'You don't…_love _him, do you—?'

'No!' she exclaimed, leaping to her feet, 'No! No, no, and no! No-oo! I'd rather lick a cat's arse and massage a dog's feet than…no! Definitely not!' She sat back down.

Very calmly, after a suitable pause, Helga said, 'I'll take that as a "no", then.'

'Very firmly!'

'Alright. Please lower your voice.'

'Am I shouting?'

'Yes!'

'Sorry!' She released a deep breath. 'Sorry. You sent me hysterical. Let's just - yes. Enough of…that sticky mess of a conversation. Let's talk about _you_. How are _you _doing?'

Helga groaned in response.

'Glad to hear it.'

'I spent all day yesterday hitting my head against hard surfaces in the hope that it'd work some kind of common sense into my brain,' she admitted.

Rowena grinned. 'Me too!'

'Ye-es,' said Helga, recoiling slightly, 'yes, I can tell.'

'I'm sorry,' she said again. 'It's been a bit of a week.'

'Yeah. It's alright. Worse things happen at sea, and all that.'

'Helga, if we were near the sea, and indeed knew people at sea who were in danger of having worse things happen to them, then perhaps I'd take comfort from that. However, as it stands, I honestly couldn't care about the sea or anything that happens near, by, at or in it. No offence.'

'Um. Alright.'

Rowena stared at the fireplace for a while and, from her position on the sofa, prodded it with the leg of a hat stand until the embers reignited. Helga shook her head in despair at her friend's inability to differentiate the roles and purposes of a hat stand and a poker, but kept her mouth firmly shut. Now wasn't the time to provoke Rowena. Not now there was a hot hat stand involved.

'Who are we teaching this evening?' she asked, as the prodding continued with a bit more force than was honestly necessary.

'Seventh years,' said Rowena, with a wince. 'Gravy.'

'Again?'

'Have we already done gravy?'

'Twice.'

'Different gravy.' She glanced at Helga and, seeing her doubtful expression, added, 'We'll put potatoes in it. We'll call it…potavy, and it will be delicious.'

Helga nodded slowly.

Rowena nodded back.

'Right,' said Helga. 'I'll, er, teach the lesson on my own, if you want. Just for today.'

'No, no. I can do it.'

'No,' said Helga, firmly, 'I'll do it. Really. It takes a certain kind of mind to come up with potavy. You should, er, get to sleep, or something. Something…immobile.'

'I'm fine, Helga, really.'

'Your arm's on fire.'

'Oh yeah.'

* * *

Someone knocked at Salazar's door. He quickly lowered his legs from the desk and assumed a position which implied he'd been working, and stared at it.

Let's see. Quite a delicate knock, with an undertone of slight disgust at the state of the door – which, if he remembered correctly, had absorbed a lot of damp of late. Three knocks – well, that didn't mean anything. If they knocked again –

They knocked again.

Alright, slightly louder this time, as well. Obviously starting to get a bit annoyed. Will probably break down the door if they don't get a reply. Who isn't teaching at the moment? Well, that would be…

'Ravenclaw?'

'No.'

'Ah.' As the door creaked open, Salazar added, 'Sorry.'

Heather, though clearly far from pleased, wasn't the kind of girl who'd chase the issue. Was that, he wondered, a sign of emotional maturity that most girls could only dream of? Or was she just the kind of person who didn't like to argue with him?

Or was it a sign that she didn't really care?

Whatever the meaning, she stood before his desk as – well, Heather-like as ever; hair carefully tussled and decorated with braids, dress clean and crisp and shapely, porcelain skin as clear as well you get the idea; she looked pretty good. Even if her forehead w_as_ a bit big.

All she said on the topic of her mistaken identity was, 'Never mind. Now, Sally—'

'Hm,' said Salazar, in the tones of someone who wishes to establish their annoyance before the conversation progresses any further.

'—I know we've only been at school a few weeks – well, _I _have anyway – but I was curious as to when you're going to organise some kind of shin-dig.'

'Hm?' said Salazar, in the tones of someone who wishes to establish their annoyance but is interested in the possibility of free booze and dancing.

'It'd have to be alcohol-free, obviously—'

'Hm-mm.'

'—_Unless_, and this is my idea, _unless _we just have a party for seventh years. Although there aren't many of us so maybe you should invite the sixth years as well.'

'Hm…'

'Although, now I think about it, most of the sixth years are gimps.'

'Hm.'

'But so are most of the teachers as well.'

'Hm?'

'Excluding your presence.'

'Hm.'

She dithered onwards, planning the mental guest list; Salazar left her to dither. His anger would be known, regardless of its feebleness and futility.

Eventually, annoyed at his silence, she demanded, 'Have I done something wrong? Or do you have lockjaw?'

With all haughtiness possible, he said, 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Lockjaw,' she repeated, 'it's when your jaw locks together.'

'Hm.'

She rolled her eyes and sat down, his agitation finally clear. 'Honestly, Sally, she _had _set me on fire! What was I _meant _to do?'

'I told you not to do anything!'

'Well that's alright for you to say – you weren't alight! I don't see why I should allow one of my teachers to set my eyebrows on fire without doing something about it!' Then she took a deep breath and added, 'And I don't care how much you fancy her! You're with _me!_'

She marched out. Salazar let her march, mainly due to his sudden immobility.

It was only five minutes after the door had slammed shut that he removed his gaze from the spot on the table that was suddenly so interesting and said, 'Well.' A few seconds later he said, 'I certainly do _not_.'

* * *

Godric Gryffindor, leader of heroes, slayer of Vikings, God among men, sighed and wondered if his nose was too big.

It was, apparently, a strong nose. A straight, sharp, manly nose; it pulled his face together in a way many people found dashing and attractive and so on and so forth. But he'd never really liked it. Five nights a week it was a snout.

His nose wasn't the reason Helga had left him, of course, but the snout was. Well…that and the fact that he'd lied to her all those years and lost his temper when she said she was pregnant. And then the fact that, when she told him she wasn't pregnant, he'd promptly continued to act as if nothing had happened.

Yes, but _as well_ _as that_, it was the snout. The entire "wolf-man" issue, really. It wasn't the kind of thing that attracted women, when all was said and done; they might admire your bravery and fawn over your good manners and respect the way you treat others, but the fact that you are, in fact, a mutated, howling, murdering freak is bound to be a sticking point.

Could she really blame him for hiding it? Well, of course she could. Being sub-human could only get you so far in life, but God knows you're unworthy of complete happiness. That was why he'd never get it.

That, and the fact that his nose was too big.

* * *

Night fell. So did Rowena.

After a few moments of intense thought while she calculated her position – Helga's office, by the desk, near a very interesting collection of confiscated items, under a chair – she set about clambering to her feet. It was easier said than done, but after a brief struggle with a chair leg and a box of jam she was up on her feet once more and conscious enough to ask:

'Huddywhafflehuh?'

Had she missed a day? – No, it had only been three hours since she last checked the clock, so…

Oh God. She'd fallen asleep? In the middle of accounting, of all things? Those heart-racing, adrenaline-pumping, brain-tingling seven hours of accountancy? How was that even possible?

With a wince, she checked the final figure once more. It didn't look good.

But then again, neither did the page and a half of figures next to it, either. The one she'd cross-referenced all the class registers to come up with.

The one that said, beyond all reasonable doubt, that the two students – Hazel McAllen and Terry Cook, to be precise – had died at some point during the last full moon.

Not to jump to conclusions, or anything, but…

Helga – I don't want to worry you, but I think…

…I'm fairly certain that – well, Godric –

Helga, I hate to have to tell you this, but Godric may have – probably has – killed two perfectly innocent students, and maybe some parents as well—

Godric, I don't want to worry you, but—

The door creaked open, and Rowena very nearly jumped out of her skin. 'Helga!' she gasped.

Her blonde, curly head peered into the room, grinning apologetically. 'Sorry, Ro. Did I wake you?'

'Nope,' said Rowena, covering the information with a discreet hand, 'I've been awake a while.'

'Did you get any work done?'

'No,' she lied, because she was an incredibly bad person.

'Oh, Ro—'

'Well, a bit, but nothing really important. I've had a lot on my mind, and, er…such.'

Helga nodded again. 'Alright, Ro. I just came in for my book, if you could…' She gestured towards the desk.

Very tentatively, being careful not to reveal the disturbing figures she'd been working on, Rowena passed across her book. 'Are you going to bed?'

Helga nodded tiredly and said, 'Thought I might. You can stay in here a bit longer if you want, but—'

'Er, no,' she interrupted, quickly. The thought of all that had happened – Salazar, Godric, Xavier and the inescapable matter of the murders – resurfaced all at once. The last thing she wanted was the opportunity to think about them further. She continued, 'Could I, in the least homosexual way possible, sleep in your room tonight, Helly?' She caught Helga's expression and added, 'Please?'

Her eyebrows lowered. 'Erm…alright,' she said, after a moment or two of thought, 'but you're not sleeping in my bed—'

'I already expressed a lack of lesbian desire!'

'—I meant _instead _of me, but thanks for clarifying that anyway.'

In "the least homosexual way possible", Rowena and Helga exited to the latter girl's bedroom. Continuing in this asserted non-lesbian fashion, Rowena threw a bed together at the foot of Helga's and, in a way that was only slightly gay if you really set your mind to it, changed into a nightdress.

Once the lights had been extinguished, and only the waxing moon illuminated the two girls, Rowena said, 'Nice bedroom, this.'

Helga's bed squeaked as she changed position and said, 'Yeah, it's alright. Bit round, though. Can't really fit anything in the corners.'

'View's nice.'

'You _have _been in my room before, Ro.'

'Not at night time.'

'Never knew there was a difference, to be honest.'

Rowena shrugged and pulled her blankets further around her shoulders. 'You never know with this place. Changing rooms and moving staircases, and all that. I got chased out of the bathroom by a sink yesterday.'

'Mm?' said Helga, through a yawn. 'Which bathroom's that one, Ro?'

'Boys' bathroom,' Rowena admitted, 'which may have had something to do with it.'

Helga yawned further. 'What were you doing in the boys' bathroom, Ro?'

'Getting chased by a sink, Helly.'

'Ah right. Night, Ro.'

Rowena wasn't tired, but she said, 'Night, Helly,' anyway.

A couple of minutes later, Rowena said, 'Helly?'

There was a short pause while Helga stirred before she said, 'Humphy?'

'No, not Humphy. Helly?'

'What?' said a voice that was slightly muted by a pillow.

'Do you…' she trailed off for a second, unable to find the right words. It was a silly question really, but it was still the kind of silly question that kept her up at night. 'Do you mind working here?'

'Umph,' said Helga, 'right now?'

'Well, no. In general.'

''M tired.'

Rowena reached out her arm and gave Helga's blankets a sharp tug. She groaned loudly into her pillow.

'Helly!'

'Wha'? 'M tired. Being eaten by a licky monster—'

'I know you're tired, but this is important. I'm in emotional turmoil.'

'Eatta san'wich.'

'I don't want to eat a sandwich.' She awaited further response and, hearing none, tugged Helga's blankets again.

'Humphy! What?'

Very slowly, Rowena said, 'Do you, Helga Hufflepuff, mind working at this establishment, Hogwarts School of…Thingywhatsit?'

'Is that what it's called now? No one told me—'

'_Helga_!'

'Oh, God!' The bed creaked again as she rolled onto her front and pulled a cushion over her ears. 'Not at this exact moment in time, Rowena, seeing as I'm knackered as an old pit pony and you keep talking at me—'

'But in general?'

'—_No!_ I don't mind it here. I _like _it here. If I could just be a bit more selective about the staff we employ, I think I would marry the entire damn castle. It's lovely. Its loveliness can only be compared to that of a fine, sunny day in one's homeland, surrounded by friends and loved ones while bluebirds swoop overhead and rainbows appear spontaneously throughout the bright blue sky covered in pink, fluffy chocolate! It's lovely. Now shush!'

Rowena smiled slightly and lay back in her makeshift bed. 'Oh,' she said, 'good. I'm glad to hear it. Night, Helly.'

'Night.'

'Helly?'

'Eugh—'

'Do you ever wish you _were_ pregnant?'

There was another spell of silence, but this one was a lot less sleepy. Everything in the room stayed purposely still.

Then, in a very calm, even voice, Helga said, 'Yes.'

'Right,' said Rowena, quietly. 'Alright.'

'Night, Ro.'

'Night, Helly.'

Sleep came, but it didn't last very long.

She woke with a jolt as something hit her full in the face; something heavy and smooth and cold. She dragged it off herself and stared through the darkness.

It was her cloak.

Very slowly, Rowena looked up. And sat at the foot of Helga's bed, his face pale and earnest, Salazar Slytherin looked straight at her.

Very quietly, he whispered, 'Coat on.'

Rowena looked down at her cloak and back up at his face. He made a strange spectacle – not concerned, confused or in any way angry, but for the first time since she'd known him, completely serious.

She nodded, and did as she was told.


	23. Chapter 23: Blood, Bones and Tears

**Chapter 23: Blood, Bones and Tears**

Not for the first time in her life, Rowena found herself following Salazar across the grounds of Hogwarts through the early hours of the morning.

She squinted into the cold, sharp wind and struggled to keep up as he marched downhill, his wand dimly illuminating their path. For a while they followed the outskirts of the dark forest, where sudden noises and suspicious movements made Rowena's stomach tighten.

Salazar broke away from the forest and changed direction across the grass. She realised he was heading towards Hogsmeade, and hoped no one had called an impromptu auction. But no; from what she could gather, he was heading towards the other side of the village, away from the inns and shops and towards the dark houses.

When the outline of the village became clearly visible on the horizon, Salazar stopped and glanced behind him. Rowena hurried forwards and pulled her cloak tighter as a fresh gust of wind hit her face. Once she'd reached him, the light of his wand dimmed further, until only their faces were illuminated by the faint, green light.

'You alright?' he asked, quietly.

Rowena nodded, trying to mute the sound of her teeth chattering.

'Good,' he said, and his voice resumed its usual volume. He set off again slower, so Rowena could walk alongside him. 'Have you brought your wand?'

Rowena nodded again. 'It's in my belt. Where are we going?'

'We're…investigating,' he said, carefully.

'Investigating? What – the murders?'

'Yep.'

Rowena stopped in her tracks, and so did he. It was silly, she knew, but the thought of the pale, dead faces at this time in the morning was enough to unnerve her. 'How are we doing that, exactly?'

He shrugged. 'A few questions, a couple of queries and a bit of exhumation.'

She took half a step back. 'A bit of _what?_'

'It's necessary.'

'But—'

'You want to know how they died, don't you?'

Rowena squirmed uncomfortably. 'Well, yes, but I don't really want to dig them up and prod their corpses to do so. They were _students_, Salazar.'

Salazar shrugged and began walking again, with a mumble of, 'I'm sure they won't complain.'

Reluctantly, she ran after him. 'OK, but - but why _now? _And why me? I'm not very good with things that, er, aren't alive. Not on a full stomach.'

He shrugged. 'Well, surprisingly enough this is probably deemed _illegal_. And there's something very romantic about digging up corpses under cloak of night, don't you think? Besides,' he added, with a brief glance at her, 'who else would I ask? You might consider it a privilege.'

Rowena was very glad he wasn't looking at her; she'd hate him to notice that she did. _Idiot I am_, she thought, sadly.

She asked, 'How much do you know about these murders, anyway?'

'Let's not call them murders,' he said hurriedly, 'we don't know what they are, yet.'

'What else could they be—?'

'And I don't know much at all,' he continued, speaking over her, 'only that the kids were in third year and that they were fairly…gouged.'

She tried not to think about it. 'What do you mean, _gouged?'_

'I don't know what I mean,' he said, dimming his wand further as the village grew closer, 'I never saw them, only their coffins. I'm just going on what I've been told.'

'What were you told? Who found them?'

'The girl was found two days before the boy,' he recounted, 'at the edge of the lake by the groundskeeper, at about six o'clock in the morning. Upside down, bloody, ripped to shreds, half her face missing – you get the idea,' he added, as Rowena covered her mouth with her hands. 'Thought to have died several hours earlier, and certainly not from drowning.'

'What about the boy?' she asked.

'It's not a nice one,' he warned.

'I'll live.'

'Promise? Well,' he cast his mind back for a second or two, and reported, 'the Magical Creatures teacher found him about half a mile or so from the castle, half-buried in the forest.'

'Oh Gods…'

'Similar story: abdomen cut up, leg missing, that sort of thing. Face was undamaged, though. Apparently he went out to send an owl, but it looks like he was dragged away by – er – something. Definitely animal, according to the Magical Creatures man.'

'Oh Gods,' Rowena said again. 'Any – any witnesses, or anything like that?'

Salazar paused before shaking his head. Then he said, 'Although one of the teachers recalls hearing something the night the girl died. Something…howling.'

She winced and held her breath. 'In a dog-like way?'

_'Wolf_-like, were her exact words.'

They both fell silent and continued their walk.

'Wow,' said Salazar, quietly, 'a good laugh would be worth a lot of money at this point.'

Rowena gave her a half-hearted smile.

'Seriously, Ravenclaw; let's not make this any worse than it has to be. I can't stand despair at this time in the morning.'

'I think it's called respect for the dead, Salazar.'

'No, it's called a mixture of guilt and depression, Rowena. Perk up.'

She obediently attempted to do so.

'Don't do that,' he said, catching sight of her expression, 'you look like a psychopath. Bit more depressed.'

She lowered her grin slightly.

'Bit more.'

And again.

'Hm…bit happier around the eyes – much better.'

'Do you want me to just stay like this? Cause it's making my cheeks cramp.'

'You can vary it if you like.'

'Oh, thank you.'

'Welcome.'

Deciding to address that bouncing ball of venom in the back of her brain, Rowena asked, 'So…er, how did Heather find out about these deaths, anyway?'

He shrugged and rolled his eyes. 'I've no idea. It was meant to be all hushed up.'

'Didn't you ask her?'

'No. I didn't get chance. She's gone off in a mad female strop, for…' he waved his hand dismissively and concluded, 'certain reasons,' as he remembered the "certain reason" in question was walking alongside him.

'Oh,' said Rowena, 'that's a shame.'

'Doesn't matter. She'll have forgiven me already – always does,' he added, with a hint of bitterness.

Rowena didn't see how that was a shame for him, but said it was anyway.

He shrugged again. 'It's inconsistencies, that's all. Bloody inconsistencies…'

'Right.' Probably better not to ask.

'OK,' he said, dimming his wand completely, 'here we are. Grab hold.' He held out his forearm, and Rowena obediently clasped onto him.

They'd reached civilisation: rows of houses of varying shapes and sizes lined the bumpy, muddy streets, and remained perfectly quiet in the darkness. Walking as close to Salazar as was possible, Rowena followed him as he navigated through the backstreets and around the houses that eclipsed their only natural light. Every so often one of them would swear or gasp as they lost footing and slipped down a pothole, but other than that they concentrated all their efforts into maintaining the silence.

After a couple of minutes of clueless stumbling and another lightly sprained ankle, Rowena whispered, 'How far—?'

'Shush.'

Finally the houses seemed to slip away, and out of the darkness loomed another building: tall, expansive, rocky and well-maintained, coloured grey by the moonlight. A field of small headstones wasn't far away.

'Is this it?' Rowena whispered.

'What do you think?' he whispered back.

She groaned slightly. 'I'm grave-robbing. I am literally grave-robbing.'

'No you're not.' He flicked his wand again, and the green light reappeared. 'You're just digging up a corpse from the holy ground in which it lies. Is there a law against that? You can get off my arm now,' he added.

She very quickly did so. 'Yep. Right. I'll, er, light my wand up as well, shall I?'

'It might help. Not too bright.'

'Right.' She illuminated the tip of her wand and, though it was hardly necessary, very carefully left it suspended in the air in front of her. Their lives may have changed hugely over the last few months, but she still wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to out-charm him.

Salazar regarded her efforts with the raised eyebrow of superiority and copied her action. Then he extended one hand and said, '_Accio shovel_.' From behind an anonymous grave, it flew into his open palm.

Rowena stared for a second, before saying, '_Accio a slightly bigger shovel_.' After a short pause, a shovel that met the mentioned criteria flew at her from the other side of the church. She caught it with a smug grin, successfully disguising the pain it had caused her wrist on impact.

With determination, Salazar began, _'Accio_ _massive_…' He caught sight of Rowena's expression and sighed. 'Fine, you win.'

Rowena awarded herself a muted round of applause.

'Now come on,' he said, setting off through the forest of graves, 'let's get digging.'

They quickly located the grave of Terry Cook and, after a further minute or so of searching, that of Hazel McAllen. Salazar stood over hers, marking out the space they needed to dig with the edge of his shovel, while Rowena stood a short distance away, trying to ignore the event.

Once he'd finished, Salazar looked up to ask, 'You alright?'

Rowena nodded.

'Good. Let's, er…' he scratched his chin thoughtfully, and looked between the two graves. 'Let's dig this one up first, shall we? Yeah. Come on.'

Reluctantly, she took her Slightly Bigger Shovel in hand and followed his lead; stab the ground, tilt the shovel, move the mud. Stab the ground, tilt the shovel, move the mud. It was quite therapeutic, really; like knitting. Only instead of a nice woolly scarf and glove set, you ended up with a cadaver.

It was also marginally more difficult than knitting. Their shovels repeatedly clanked into each other, and Rowena had a sneaking suspicion Salazar was becoming slightly competitive about the amount of soil they were moving. So it wasn't knitting; it was a race. It was anything and everything other than grave-robbing.

Pausing to regain his composure, Salazar said, 'I know this is a funny time and place to bring it up, Ravenclaw – oh don't stop there, you're doing such a good job – but I have another idea for the school.'

Rowena glared at him and resumed her digging. 'An idea?'

'Yes. Well technically it was Heather's idea, but I have to admit it's quite a good one.'

Rowena stabbed the ground with a bit more force than was absolutely necessary. 'Yes?'

'How does another party sound to you?'

This time she did stop digging, and looked him in the eye. The glowing wands that hovered overhead distorted his expression in shadow, but she was fairly sure his eyebrows were elevated.

'A party?' she repeated. 'You think now is a good time to be discussing a party?'

He shrugged and said, 'Don't see why not. We could discuss the weather if you prefer.'

'Not a…' she winced, 'another _part-ay_, is it?'

'There was nothing wrong with that part-ay,' he said, picking up the shovel again and shifting the soil. 'It was a perfectly good part-ay, as far as I recall.'

'That's the point,' she said, 'you don't recall. We got bladdered.'

'No, _that's _the point. It was fun, once the alcohol started flowing – resume your digging, woman – and besides, this one isn't even going to be a part-ay. It'll be a _shin-dig_.'

'Oh dear. What's a shin-dig?'

'It's a bit like a part-ay,' he explained, 'to the untrained eye. But it's a lot less self-conscious. More emphasis on having a good time, enjoying the company, rejoicing in—'

'Alcohol, you mean?'

'Yes.'

'No.' She paused briefly to take advantage of the gust of cold wind that cooled her sweat, and said, 'Alcohol is not the way forward, Salazar.'

'That's not what Hat says.'

'Hat is a raggedy old pervert with a nipple fixation and a drink problem. He's not the kind of creature you want to consult when organising any kind of social gathering.'

'I don't know – he has his charms.'

'Hm.' She thought, but didn't say, He's a traitor, that's what he is. Lecherous little swine. 'And who'll be attending this party?'

'Teachers, I suppose. Seventh years, obviously.'

'Obviously,' she muttered.

'And the sixth years, since there aren't many of them. But if we're not allowed alcohol' — their shovels clanged together again — 'we might as well invite the entire school.'

'And you promise not to bring ale?'

'Promise.'

'Promise?'

He looked her in the eye and said, _'Promise_.'

Rowena quickly looked away. 'Good. Thanks. Er – oh,' she mumbled, as the edge of her spade made contact with something hard and wooden. 'I think we've got it.'

They both glanced around; apparently, neither of them had realised how far down they'd reached, nor how high the grass around them had become. 'Oh,' said Salazar, 'that's good. Never knew you had it in you, Ravenclaw. Been building up muscle?'

Rowena glanced at her arms and said, 'Nyeh?'

'Well, I'll – er – finish this one off, then. You can make a start of the other one. Remember where it is?'

Rowena nodded. A light scattering of soil still covered the coffin, so she couldn't see it. But it was there, nonetheless, under her feet. She shuddered. 'I remember. Excuse me…'

With a slight struggle and a hand from Salazar, she climbed out of the hollow grave and knelt beside it while he passed up her shovel, showering dirt into his eyes as he did so.

'Sorry,' she mumbled. He waved his hand dismissively. 'I expected it to be deeper. The grave, I mean. Six feet under, and all that…'

Salazar shrugged. 'Laziness prevails. And don't jinx it – I don't want to be digging _him _up all morning.'

She nodded again. With her wand bobbing overhead, she made the short trip through the graveyard until she came across the headstone of Terry Cook, and made a hasty start. The rumour was true: graveyards were creepy. They were creepiest in the early hours of the morning, when the possibility of pale, dead hands bursting through the soil seemed incredibly likely.

Still, she focused her energies on digging and tried to shut off her imagination. She could still hear Salazar digging nearby, and knew she was safe.

Well, relatively safe. You could never tell with Salazar.

After a few minutes of digging, during which time she didn't get much work done but managed to bruise her chin in two places, Salazar re-emerged from the empty grave and staggered towards her, cursing beneath his breath.

'You alright?' she asked.

'Bloody tree root attacked me,' he muttered, rubbing the back of his calf, 'so I stabbed it with the shovel.'

'It was no more than it deserved.'

'Damn straight. Get digging.'

'Eugh…' She continued her feeble efforts. It was all very well and good for him to stand there providing helpful pointers, but her arms were beginning to seize up and her chin hurt. 'Aren't you going to help?'

'I will in a minute.' He took the shovel in hand in a display of good will. 'What about this shin-dig, then?'

Rowena discreetly rolled her eyes. 'What about it?'

'Can we have one?'

'I really don't think that—'

'It'll be the highlight of your sad and lonely little life,' he promised.

She rolled her eyes again, less discreetly this time. 'Thank you for that. But really, Salazar, I don't have time to organise any kind of party, and neither do you.'

'Shin-dig,' he corrected her, 'it's a _shin-dig_. We won't be partying, we'll be…digging shins.'

'That doesn't change the fact that we've got work spilling out of our ears, Salazar.'

'All we need to do is turn up – it'll boost morale, and such. Besides, I can just ask Heather to organise everything, I'm sure she won't—argh! You just stabbed me!'

'No I didn't,' said Rowena, hurriedly.

'Yes you did, you violent tart! Ah…' He hopped around the grave for a while and kicked off his shoe to examine the damage. Rowena couldn't see it, but she was fairly sure he was exaggerating.

'Oh, it can't be that bad,' she said.

'You keep digging, butcher. Oh, Christ. There was really no need for that.'

'I didn't do anything!' she insisted. She was almost certain this was true.

'Shush!'

'Oh, you can talk—'

'No, shush!' And then he did something that was near the top of the list of things she wasn't expecting, and in one swift movement tackled her to the ground. As an afterthought, he clamped his hand over her mouth.

Rowena's initial confusion was quickly dispelled when she saw, against the light of the rising sun, a blurred silhouette vanish behind the church. She quickly pushed Salazar's hand away and whispered, _'Accio_,' then stabbed their wands tip-first into the ground to extinguish the light.

It was only a few minutes later, when Salazar dared to breathe again, that she was alerted to his current position, which was, largely, on top of her. She glanced briefly at the top of his head and then away again, and decided not to mention it.

Finally he leapt to his feet. After a slightly stunned pause, Rowena clambered up after him.

'Well,' he said, wiping the dust from his sleeves, 'that was uncomfortably close.'

She was about to say "It wasn't that bad" when she realised what he was referring to. 'Oh,' she mumbled, 'yeah. Are they gone?'

'I think so. Did you see who it was?'

Rowena shook her head and set about wiping the mud from her back. 'Did you?'

'No.'

'Villager?' she suggested.

He shrugged. 'Godders?'

'Malfoy?'

'I thought it looked more female, to be honest.' In unison, they said, 'Helga?'

'I doubt it,' said Rowena, as an afterthought, 'she's not much of an early riser. And Nature scares her.'

'Well, somebody was lurking about.'

With forced nonchalance, she said, 'Heather?'

He just shook his head.

Rowena fought the urge to rip his head from his body. 'It's getting light,' she said, to quell the urge. 'We're not going to get this one finished.'

He nodded, grudgingly. 'You're right. We'll need to hurry.' He began to scrape back the soil and grass into the admittedly rather shallow grave, and gestured for her to follow his lead. Rowena did so.

As she patted down another layer of soil, she asked, 'Has Godric ever killed anyone before, do you know?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Few Vikings.'

'Well, that's alright.'

He paused to raise his eyebrows in manner that was meant to inflict a guilty conscious.

'Well – not _alright_, obviously,' she amended, quickly, 'but, you know. Times of war, and all that. And – oh, you know what I meant.'

'In werewolf form, you mean?' He shrugged again. 'I've no idea. Not the kind of thing I've ever asked him.'

'How did he get bitten?'

He paused, then shrugged yet again. 'No idea. I know they used to bung him in a cage once a full moon at school, though. Then chuck him a portkey and send him off to a forest somewhere.'

'Oh God. How horrible.'

'Stopped him killing people, didn't it?'

'Well…I suppose,' she admitted, reluctantly. 'Does he turn into a full wolf?'

'An incredibly hairy man with a snout, as far as I know.'

Rowena frowned in thought. 'Surely,' she said, pensively, 'he would have planned ahead, wouldn't he? Planned somewhere to go when he…changed?'

Salazar just shrugged again. Neither of them spoke the words they were thinking: Apparently not.

'Well,' said Salazar, as the final layer of earth was flattened with considerable vigour, 'enough of this foppery. Let's go and exhume something.'

'Yay,' said Rowena, flatly.

The coffin was already out of the soil, and lay on the grass beside the vacant grave. As they approached the spot – both walking slowly, willing the other to get there first – Rowena asked, 'What about student involvement? Reckon they could be implicated, somehow?'

'What – kids killing each other?'

'Yeah. Like a cult, or something.'

'I doubt there's any cult activity going on.'

'Good. The last thing I want to walk in on is a pentangle of semi-naked students shouting "Grease the goat! Grease the goat!", or something.'

'You don't see much goat-greasing nowadays,' said Salazar, pensively.

'Probably for reasons of hygiene.'

'Yeah.'

Finally, the walk was over. They crouched beside the closed box, Salazar's hands hovering over it for a second or two. 'Right,' he said, finally, 'let's have a look…'

They had a look.

And afterwards, when Rowena couldn't stem the flow of tears any longer, Salazar extended an arm and pulled her towards him. He held her there for some time, while she cried into his shirt.

Somewhere above her head, she heard him say: 'Didn't deserve that. Even if she _was _a mudblood.'

_I'm not going to say anything._ She closed her eyes and leant into him further. _Just this once._

_Just this once, I'm not going to say anything…_


	24. Chapter 24: The Mysterious Mrs Bruntt

**Chapter 24: The Mysterious Mrs Bruntt**

'A party?' said Godric, uncertainly.

Rowena stared. 'Well, yes,' she said, after a slight pause, 'I suppose you _could _call it a party, if you wanted to be vague about it. To the inexpert vision, I suppose, you could call it a party. But what it _actually _is, is…'

And, somehow, days had passed and life had continued. The tender moments by an open grave…well, they were still there, of course, and they were still significant, but they were also in the past. And Hogwarts was about future. Future and things.

Things like reputation and professionalism and that scowling evil bitch with a large forehead who liked to call herself Slytherin's girlfriend. And _future_. And…

Across the sea of pointed hats, Salazar elevated both eyebrows, grinned and nodded encouragingly. Another teacher's meeting; another excuse for Rowena to make an idiot of herself on behalf of Mr Salazar W Slytherin.

'What it _actually _is,' she continued, all eyes on her, 'is a shin-dig.'

The words were met with further silence from the assembled teachers. Silence with an undertone of confusion and a hint of suspicion, with a dash of "are these meetings actually compulsory?" with a sprinkle of cynicism. It was a very telling silence.

Seated between the Divination teacher and the cook, Helga shook her head despairingly on Rowena's behalf.

'A shin-dig?' Godric repeated. 'Is that a…_kind _of party?'

'A bit,' she said, grudgingly, 'but there's more of an emphasis on…' What was it Slytherin had said? It must have been bloody good, because she didn't do this for just anyone. 'Having a good time and, er...'

From the back of the room, Salazar mimed a selection of words. Rowena squinted and struggled to translate them.

'Cele-bration,' she said, slowly, 'and…uniting students in their…time of…need?'

Various looks were exchanged around the room.

'Celebration,' she said again, 'and uniting students in their time of need. That's what a shin-dig's all about! And having…fun? Yes, and having fun. And…breasts. What—?' Dammit!

'Breasts?' said Godric, rather taken aback.

'No, obviously not breasts! Erm – I meant—'_ Damn you, Salazar Slytherin! _'I meant, er, rest!' She looked quickly away from Salazar as he concentrated very intently on muffling his laughter.

'Rest,' said Godric.

'Yes, rest! What did you think I said?'

There was silence. Then, very quietly, in a voice that radiated considerable disbelief, Helga said, 'Breasts.'

'Well I didn't. You wouldn't find any of those at a respectable shin-dig.'

Salazar decided now would be a good time to say, 'Shame.'

'It's a good idea,' Rowena said quickly, to cover the comment. 'I think that, considering all that's happened recently, the students would really appreciate a good shimmy-shake, if you get my meaning.'

The teachers – the majority of whom looked to have been excavated from a Romanian tomb – didn't get her meaning.

'I'm not – I'm not sure,' said Godric, slowly, 'that a good – er – shimmy-shake – is really called for at this moment in time, Miss Ravenclaw. Even when one considers the – er – troubles…students have faced of late. Er,' he licked his lips nervously.

The silence deepened at the mention of the "troubles". Of course, they all knew what it meant, but they didn't all know who was behind it. Potentially. Possibly.

Probably.

'Well,' said Rowena, discarding the thought from her mind, 'we could put it to a vote, couldn't we?' She looked around the room imploringly. Of course – twenty-four members of staff, and she and Salazar were the only ones in favour of it. The odds could have been stacked higher against them, but not much higher.

Godric nodded gingerly. 'We could, but I don't see—'

'I think it's a good idea, actually,' said the familiar voice of Anatole Amery. He rose from his chair assuredly, with one hand slightly raised. 'It'll boost morale, for one thing.'

Rowena nodded eagerly in agreement. 'Morale!'

'And I'm sure the students would appreciate a break.'

'A break!'

'It'll give everyone time to relax and unwind; I'm sure we'll all appreciate it when the time comes.'

'Yes – appreciate it!' said Rowena, unable to fathom why these words wouldn't occur to her. All she'd managed was a mumble of confused nonsense about celebrations and bosoms.

'And,' said Anatole, resuming his seat, 'it's just the kind of thing that'll encourage students to enrol in the future.'

A mutter of agreement ran throughout the room. Salazar said, 'I really don't like that man,' and Godric look around uneasily.

'Well,' he said, addressing the meeting once more, 'is that – are we? – oh. Is that a vote of confidence then? Oh. Well – I suppose, then…'

Godric wasn't the only person unable to shake the memory of the previous party: Helga, though smiling fixedly, appeared to be slightly dead behind the eyes. As the staff filed out of the room, Rowena gave her a friendly thumbs-up, and the smile became manic.

Finally, Salazar appeared at her shoulder and grinned mockingly.

'Breasts?' Rowena hissed at him. 'Why were you mouthing the word "breasts" at me?'

'Don't know what you're talking about,' said Salazar, with mock innocence. 'I think someone's got a fixation.'

She elbowed him.

* * *

Helga held one dress in front of her. After a suitable pause, she replaced it with a different dress.

Rowena squinted appraisingly and said, 'First one.'

Helga obediently showed her the first dress, adding, 'I thought I could probably cover the stain with my hair.'

Rowena nodded. 'And you can probably use a handbag to cover the stain on your other dress.'

'I don't have a handbag.'

'Problem solved.'

Helga sighed forlornly. 'I suppose. But I really prefer the other one…'

'Helga?'

'Yes?'

'They're exactly the same dress.'

'But this one just _feels _better.'

Rowena decided not to pursue the subject; when it came to dresses, Helga placed a lot of importance on her instincts. The last thing she wanted was a debate about the Aardvark of Fire incident, and how the tartan frock was wholly responsible for the legal trial that followed.

'Alright. Looking forward to the shin-dig?'

'Urf,' said Helga, from somewhere within the depths of Brown Dress Number One. 'Can't find the damn armhole…flippit…what?'

'Shin-dig?' Rowena repeated. 'Looking forward to it? Yes?'

'Yes,' she said, appearing victoriously from the appropriate hole, 'as much as I look forward to Death's cold, fatal blow, actually.'

Rowena tut-ed. 'It'll be fun.'

'No it won't. Dammit, damn thing's on backwards—'

'It will. It'll be innocent, alcohol-free and adult fun.'

'Adult fun? That doesn't sound very innocent. Is this upside down?'

Rowena spared her a quick glance. 'Yeah, and inside-out. Still, I think—'

'Dammit all.'

'—we should give it a chance. Enter the spirit of things and put on brave faces. Act happy, and happiness will come to you. Be jolly and bright; no folly all night.'

'Ah. That was a nice rhyme, Ro.'

'Thank you, I wrote it myself.'

'Very catchy. What's this?'

'An underskirt, I think.'

'Dammit all—'

'Yeah, I'm sure it'll be fine.'

Speaking down a sleeve, Helga asked, 'Why did you want a shin-dig so much, anyway? Is it a devious scheme of some kind, or – pfft – cotton in my eyes, dammit.'

'I don't know, really,' said Rowena. This was much more suitable than saying "I didn't, really, but Salazar did and he somehow talked me into proposing it at a meeting and lo! there's a cat in my pyjamas, whatever that's supposed to mean."

'So you really think it's going to go well?' said Helga, uncertainly.

'Yep. Swimmingly.'

'Swimmingly?'

'Rollickingly.'

'Then you truly are insane – ah! Got it.' Her head emerged from the dress' appropriate opening; a little flustered, with hair that looked like it could nest sparrows. She grinned broadly and checked the mirror.

'It's going to go well,' said Rowena, stubbornly. 'I really do think that, this time, it's going to go well.'

'Stranger things have happened.'

'Yeah. To _us_, mainly.'

'And how do you plan to ignore Heather all evening?'

'Very simply, actually,' said Rowena, checking her reflection in the mirror besides Helga and smoothing down her dress where necessary. 'I don't want to go into detail at this precise moment, but the basic idea behind it is that I kill her.'

'Kill her?' Helga repeated.

'With one fell swoop,' said Rowena, slamming her fist against the dressing table to emphasise her point. 'Simple, yet effective.'

'And it's all going to go well, is it?'

'Yep.'

Outside, a fork of lightening cracked against the darkness and bleached the sky white. As the light faded and the rain began to fall, Helga raised an eyebrow.

'Yep,' Rowena repeated, 'it's all going to go well.'

* * *

Things were going well.

Everything was actually going rather well.

Tedious, dull and deadly boring, but _well_. The evening was progressing smoothly – one might even say _swimmingly _– and Salazar liked to think he was partly, if not entirely, responsible.

Was it just his imagination, or was that a vague sense of pride? A warm tingle of satisfaction? The passionate embrace of triumph? All from standing in a corner of the great hall, making sure schoolchildren didn't enjoy themselves too much? Jesus. It spoke volumes about the condition of his life.

Better find Rowena. Or Heather. Whoever he found first.

To his unspoken relief, Rowena was lurking nearby beneath a tall window. Although to the casual observer she presented the figure of an attentive, watchful headmistress, it took a second glance to realise she had her eyes closed and appeared to be in some kind of deep, meditative trance.

Or perhaps she was just sleeping on her feet. Like a horse.

Salazar, keeping his voice quiet so not to be heard over the abysmally low level of chatter, appeared at her elbow and said, '_Whsst_.'

Rowena's eyes shot open. She regarded him with a look of suspicion and said, 'Barbara?'

'I don't want to be a nuisance, Rowena, but fate decrees that I be the one to inform you that you are, in fact, asleep. Did you just call me Barbara?'

'Yes. And I'm not asleep,' she said, straightening up and flattening her dress as she realised her current location, 'otherwise you'd be a young, strapping Merlin, and I'd be much more attractive.'

Salazar wrinkled his nose in distaste. 'Merlin?'

'He has a certain charm,' said Rowena, vaguely.

'You were asleep, weren't you?'

'No.'

'Yes you were. Your eyelids were twitching and everything.'

'If you must know,' she said, 'I was listening to the rain fall against the window with my eyes closed. It brings me great peace of mind and happiness—'

'Bollocks, you were drooling. Still are, actually,' he added, after a meditative pause.

Rowena swore and dealt with the problem issuing from the corner of her mouth.

'Some party this is,' Salazar continued, watching with amusement as she strove to remove a string of spittle that didn't actually exist. 'Quaint. A bit boring, but at least no one's getting murdered. No one's having fun either, but that's fine with me. Oh – give up, Ravenclaw, I was kidding. You're going to rub your lips off.'

Rowena quickly lowered her hand and frowned. 'That's a cruel trick to play on somebody who's just woken up.'

'How is it even possible to sleep like that?'

'Something I learnt,' she said, with only the faintest of grins, 'while trying to sleep in an upright cupboard.'

Salazar smirked.

The period of time usually reserved for smirking elapsed, but he continued to smirk nonetheless. Rowena wondered why, then realised: neither of them could think of anything to say that would move the conversation onwards.

Panic-stricken, Rowena smirked back. Salazar's eyebrows twitched as she did so, and his smirk grew decidedly smirkier.

They were going to be locked in a smirking, cupboard-avoiding glare for the rest of their lives.

Rowena was just beginning to contemplate feigning some kind of choking fit to escape, when Anatole Amery appeared between them. Rowena could have kissed him if he wasn't quite so short.

'Hullo,' he said, a hint of caution apparent beneath the veneer of forced casualness. Clearly, he'd realised that any conversation between he and Rowena tended to conclude with an overly-enthusiastic round of insults from Professor Slytherin.

'Hello Anatole,' said Rowena, shattering the glare, 'are you enjoying the, er, party?'

"Party" was a generous description. No more than eight students filled the Great Hall, the others – Heather included – having pissed off somewhere and hopefully tumbled down a ravine. The survivors swayed miserably to the pitiable wails of an invisible string band, which echoed throughout the cold, stone room sounding like an assembly of cats in the throes of labour.

The disappointment of the students was met only by that of the teachers, who slouched, lounged and slumped around the room wishing they were dead. Salazar surveyed the misery proudly, and thought it was fantastic.

'Oh yes,' lied Anatole, 'it seems to be…progressing rather well. Ahem. I was wondering if we might have time to, er, talk…?' He shot an imploring glance between the two of them.

Salazar raised an expectant eyebrow and nodded. 'Yes?'

'Er,' said Anatole, 'I meant just Rowena.'

'Yes,' said Salazar, raising his other eyebrow, 'I am she.'

Anatole stared at him. Of all the possible routes he'd expected this conversation to take, this wasn't one of them. Eventually he said, 'Er?'

'Yes,' said Rowena, unsure of who was annoying her the most, 'I'm sure I've got a minute. If you wouldn't mind, Salazar…?' She beckoned for him to leave. In response, he took one defiant step away from them and smiled.

Rowena allowed Anatole to lead her further away, leaving Salazar to call, 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do, sister!' in a voice so mischievous it actually caused her to blush.

'Oh,' said Anatole, politely, 'is he your broth—?'

'No. Dear _god_, no.'

'Oh. Um. You look nice.'

Rowena doubted it, but said thank you anyway. Despite the size of it, Salazar had still somehow managed to vanish amongst the crowd. The boy had to be part-vampire; it explained everything.

'I just wanted to talk to you about those unexplained murders.' It wasn't an everyday phrase, but Anatole Amery could make it as casual as a weather report. 'The gamekeeper's quit, you see, and a couple of students have asked me about security…'

'Oh yes?' Didn't ask me, Rowena thought, the bastards.

'…And, if you can give me a full moon and a couple of dark robes, I can probably knock up a couple of protective spells with a friend. If you like.'

It took Rowena a second or two to recall that Anatole taught Defence Against Dark Arts. She nodded. 'Alright, do what you like. Have to be, er, authorised, and all that,' she added, realising the relevance of the full moon, and thinking it would be a terrible shame to see Anatole's rather lovely thighs cut to ribbons. 'Are the dark robes really necessary?'

'Well…no,' he admitted, rather shame-facedly, 'but they do make the evenings fly quicker.'

Rowena laughed, hoping to God that the comment was a joke. Apparently, it was. 'Yes, that sounds fine,' she said, 'I'm sure we'll have no problems. Have you discussed it with anyone else?'

'No,' he said, significantly, 'just you.'

'…Ah?'

For a moment or two, Rowena found herself once again locked in a slightly uncomfortable silence. Then Anatole said:

'Well, I'll go and prepare some spells and things…a lot of ingredients and things, you know…yeah. Bye.'

'Bye,' said Rowena, in a voice that was several notes higher than usual, and considerably more embarrassed.

Before he turned to leave, he added, 'Oh, there's a woman looking for Professor Slytherin, somewhere. Mrs Bruntt. Erm.' And with that final articulate statement he shuffled from the room.

Rowena stared after him for a while, taken by the oddity of the situation, before returning to her spot under the window. Helga – her first choice in discussing a matter of this nature – had long since vanished from sight, but if Salazar was half the vampire she thought he was, he'd soon descend upon a distressed young virgin if she stood around long enough.

True to form, Salazar loomed out of the non-existent crowd and appeared by her side a minute or so later. Although another couple of students had appeared in the hall, they had sense enough to remain a good distance away from two of their headmasters, and their privacy remained uncompromised. Unless, of course, Heather Bettany had concealed herself behind a nearby curtain and listened to their every word, which wasn't entirely unlikely.

'I hope you kept control of yourself,' said Salazar, with a grin.

'I just about managed.'

'What did he want?'

'Nyeh,' she said vaguely, with a wave of her hand, 'not much. Not much at all.' Salazar stared at her, his grin becoming more and more teasing as she squirmed uncomfortably. 'Well,' she admitted eventually, 'he may have…er…'

'Propositioned you?'

'No! He just – he was just very nice to me. Erm.'

'How nice?'

'Well he didn't have sex with me, if that's what you mean,' she snapped.

Salazar very nearly laughed, but managed to contain himself. 'No. I think I definitely would've noticed a scene of intercourse unfolding.'

Rowena "nyeh"-ed again, to his amusement.

'Poor Ravenclaw,' he said, with a hint of taunting in his voice, 'you've absolutely no idea when you're being flirted with, do you?'

Rowena's eyebrows shot up into her fringe. 'What?'

'It's true,' he insisted, 'little Anatiddle was all over you like a wet flannel.'

Her heartbeat relaxed slightly. 'Oh! No. No, I don't think he was.'

'Course he was.'

'No, I don't think so. He's just nice.'

'_Nice?_ No. See,' said Salazar, adopting the tone of a revered teacher, 'what am I doing now?' He cast his eyes over her, from head to toe, in one long, soft, sweeping motion.

Rowena stared back at him. 'Evil Eye?' she suggested.

'Nope.' He looked her briefly up and down again, this time with a suggestive nod of his head. Rowena shrugged to express her bafflement, and he explained: 'I'm undressing you with my eyes.'

Rowena looked down at herself, as if to check she was still fully clothed. 'Really?'

'Yep,' he said, proudly.

She glanced down again. 'Really? Is that what that is?'

'Yep.'

'Well, stop it.'

He did it again.

Rowena slapped him lightly on the arm. 'Give up,' she said, 'I feel violated.'

Salazar chuckled.

'No one's allowed sex, anyway,' she said, as the memory of her most recent plan – hastily scribbled across the palm of her hand the night before – stirred in her mind.

'What?' said Salazar, adopting a look of mock horror, 'When did this happen? I wish to register a complaint—'

'No students, anyway. It's a war,' she explained, 'against sex and violence.'

'No violent kissing, and no sexy kicking?'

'Correct.'

'Oh. Don't think that's going to be very popular,' he said, absently, looking over the ten or so students still dancing.

Apparently, Salazar hadn't yet twigged her hidden agenda and realised that Heather Bettany still fell into the "student" category. Rowena allowed herself to smile wickedly, and mentally dance the dance of glee. _No sex for you, my large-foreheaded friend._

Then the voice of her sub-conscience spoke:

Fantastic! A war against sex and violence. Twice now, Salazar had hinted – _more _than hinted, in fact, he'd made it explicitly clear – his feelings on half-bloods. _Mudbloods_. And what had she done?

Reported him? Scolded him? Tapped him lightly on the back of the hand and said "stop that, you silly racist"? No: she'd dithered. She'd bloody dithered.

While he spread his rampantly anti-mudblood – _half_-blood! – feelings, she'd kept schtum like a good little lapdog and let him undress her with his eyes.

Well – that part wasn't so bad, she supposed. As long as it was only his eyes doing the undressing, she didn't have to risk him glimpsing her weird nipples. Not that she'd ever had anything to compare against, but one knew one's own nipples well enough to know when they were conspiring against one.

She snapped her head up sharply, realising where this train of thought had led her. Dear God, what was she turning into? She sighed and joined Slytherin in his pre-occupied silence.

As the wailing music reached a strangled crescendo, Rowena found herself slyly surveying Salazar's face.

She wasn't sure where the impulse had come from, but suspected her previous thoughts on his decidedly racist tendencies was probably a contributing factor. She wondered if he had racist eyes.

It was a nice face.

Not a _handsome _face. But...nice.

'Ravenclaw?'

Rowena snapped to life with a start. He still faced away from her, but she looked guiltily away as the music wailed back into life. 'Yes?' she said, quickly.

'I'm sorry I kissed you.'

'What?' she said, stammering slightly, 'What? When?'

Now he turned to her, and Rowena could only pray he didn't notice her guilty blush. More than that, she prayed he hadn't somehow accessed her thoughts.

'When?' he repeated, brows furrowing. 'When I kissed you, obviously.'

She made a few unintelligible stammers in response. What was his expression? Oh, she couldn't look. Lightening flashed silently outside, followed by a low roll of thunder.

'That – it's alright,' she managed, eventually, 'I _did _kiss you back, if you recall.'

'All the same,' he shrugged, 'sorry.'

'What?' she said again, words temporarily eluding her. He stared at her unflinchingly while the bottom fell from her stomach, and she desperately wondered what the hell had happened to the world in the last three minutes or so. 'You're sorry you kissed me?' she said, struggling to keep her voice low. 'You're sorry for _you—?'_

'I'm just sorry in general,' he interjected. 'I'm not – I mean—'

'Can't have been the most terrible mistake of your life,' she hissed, 'you damn well didn't seem to mind it at the time!'

'I didn't mean—'

'Sorry if it's putting a damper on things with little Heather, I certainly didn't mean for it to haunt you for the rest of your existence!'

'I didn't mean that,' he said. Rowena wanted to strangle him and his serene demeanour. 'I'm just apologising for any - I don't know, confusion. Strangeness. That's all.'

'Well, bloody—' she dealt out a series of furious jabs at his chest, which he didn't attempt to resist, '—_don't!_ Who do you think I am, bloody…bloody…Sally McSensitive?'

'Clearly not,' he said, weekly.

Rowena lowered her jabbing fingers and calmed down slightly, though her mind continued to race. 'It's – it's_ not the point_, you know!' she said, somehow managing to shout while keeping her voice low. 'You don't just waltz around, kissing girls and then apologising weeks later! It's – it's unethical!'

'Sorry?' he said.

'Stop saying sorry!'

He waved his arms around instead, as if trying to ward away the spirits of Mad Female Outrage that surrounded him. 'What do you _want _me to say?'

'I want you to stop being an idiot! You're worried for any - for any _confusion_, you say? Well, no confusion here! I know what you are and I know what I am and I know that when our faces smush together it doesn't mean _anything!_ I _get_ it! Alright?'

Salazar began to say sorry, but stopped himself just in time. He waved his arms around again.

Rowena sighed and fell softly against the window, instantly feeling the clammy chill of condensation against her back. 'I'm not confused about _anything_. So just - bugger off.'

He leant beside her, against the windowpane. His face reflected in the outside darkness, and all four eyes stared into hers curiously. Yes – curiosity. Bewilderment, worry and sincerity, but mainly a sense of wide-eyed curiosity.

Rowena attempted to remain angry, but that quickly withered under his gaze. She was vaguely aware of other faces and bodies within the room, but only vaguely.

'So,' said Salazar, 'what is the point?'

'I thought,' she said, quietly, 'we were…you know. Getting along.'

His eyes flickered open – very briefly – in surprise. Then he said, 'Well, we were.'

'What about Heather, then?'

He was silent for a moment or two, then said, 'I suppose I – well – I get along with her, as well.'

'What…better than you get on with me?'

He considered this answer, as he had done his previous ones. He repeated, 'I get along with her, as well.'

Rowena shifted her eyes away from his, but contained her sigh within the confines of her mind.

'You're nice to get along with, Ravenclaw.'

'I've often thought so.'

'It's just…simpler with Heather. Hm?'

'Hm,' Rowena agreed flatly, still staring slightly over his shoulder. She felt horribly like a child being disciplined by a teacher, but now the teacher was kicking her in the stomach and spitting in her eyes. Smiling.

'It might not be – forever,' he mumbled.

'Oh,' she said, woodenly, 'goody.'

He didn't speak, but released a tiny "hm" noise. Rowena wasn't sure if his gaze had moved, and didn't want to find out. She shifted her shoulders slightly, and the wet glass squeaked.

_And here's where I say something really profound_: 'Mrs Bruntt's looking for you. Whoever she is.'

The atmosphere changed. Salazar froze, and his whole body stiffened as if she'd muttered a curse. Very slowly, he said, 'Who?'

'Mrs Bruntt,' she repeated. 'Anatole said—'

'She's here?'

'She's on the grounds somewhere, yeah.'

He took a step away from the window, but in no particular direction. A line of moisture ran up his forearm and across his shoulder blade from where the condensation had stained him.

'Who is she?' Rowena asked, disinterestedly.

'She's – Christ – cousin, half-cousin, something like that…' Now Salazar attempted to pace the room busily, while somehow remaining completely stationary. 'She isn't Mrs, thought – can't be Mrs Bruntt unless she's married herself. So what happened to –? Oh, _piss_.'

'Who's Miss Bruntt?' Rowena asked, suspiciously. 'What does she want?'

'We need to find her,' said Salazar, mainly to himself, 'yeah, find her – wherever she is. Got to keep her away from everyone else – wouldn't be good publicity, I'm sure—'

'_Who's Miss Bruntt?_' Rowena demanded. She was vaguely aware of a far-off whisper and a giggle as Salazar grabbed each of her elbows and spoke urgently:

'Something's going to happen soon and it's going to annoy you immensely, but it is definitely not my fault, alright?'

Rowena stared back at him and said, 'Huh?'

'Very good.' He released her elbows and paced quickly from the room. Rowena's mind reeled for a moment or two, before she tottered after him, watched by curious students who thought the evening was becoming a lot more interesting.

'Salazar,' she hissed, '_Salazar!_ It's difficult in a dress!' Ahead of her, Rowena caught sight of him vanishing down a darkened corridor. She ran to keep up, and reached his side as he walked into a rather startled Heather Bettany.

'No time,' he said, tapping her on the shoulders and pushing her in the other direction. She gasped indignantly, and Rowena couldn't resist grinning as she ran on.

They descended quickly, down the shallow incline to the castle dungeons. Rowena kept her head down, careful to avoid the damp slime that dripped from the ceiling, and held one side of her dress at knee length to avoid breaking her neck at what she felt would be an inopportune moment.

Finally, they reached the dungeon corridor: to one side, curving under the lake, a series of classrooms; to the other, the Slytherin common room and his own office, the door of which was slightly ajar. A streak of warm amber light pooled into the corridor, illuminating the veneer of moisture that covered every stone.

Salazar paused, so Rowena did the same. He shot his distracted eyes towards her and said, 'Remember – not my fault _at all_.' With that final cryptic comment, he pushed open the door to his office and stepped inside. Rowena followed.


	25. Chapter 25: A Double Dash of Damn

**Chapter 25: A Double Dash of Damn for the Weekend**

Helga, with an expression on her face that could only be described as "ardent and unerring disgust", ran at a couple of romantically entwined students and pried them apart with a sweeping brush.

'Come on,' she said, as they tore apart with a disquieting _schlurp_, 'that's enough of that! Not in my corridor, missus. He'll only give you the Clap anyway.'

'But Miss—'

'No buts, Zachary, I know your game. You were kissing the back of your hand ten minutes ago.'

'Miss—!'

'Go on.' She jabbed a reluctant Zachary with the broom until, with a final desperate glance behind him, he disappeared quickly around the corner. Helga turned determinedly back to his kissing partner, an abashed looking fifth year, and said, 'Go on, Cynthia, or it's the broom for you. Go on!'

'But, miss—'

'No excuses!' She edged towards the hapless student, waving the broom in a threatening manner. 'I will not have those brazen displays of carnality in my corridors! I'm ashamed of you – you're meant to be a Hufflepuff, girl. Remember the way of the badger!'

'What kind of badger, miss – European, American, honey, hog, ferret or stink?'

Helga wavered for a moment, suspicious of the innocent look in Cynthia's eyes. Then she replied, 'Each is as noble as the last, Cynthia. Although you should know by now that the honey badger actually belongs to a different family from its _Melinae _cousins.'

'Oh yeah. If I remember correctly, it's often placed within its own subfamily category, the _Mellivorinae_.'

'Er…yes.'

'Although there is some debate amongst environmental scientists as to whether it should be classified as part of the broader sub-family, _Mustelinae_, along with martens, weasels and stoats.'

Helga stared. Cynthia stared back, with the kind of innocence that was extremely unnatural in a girl of her age.

After an uncomfortable minute or so of silence, Helga reacted in the only way she knew how and dumbly exited the scene, wondering what exactly the hell had just happened.

* * *

Of course, thought Rowena, it would be too much to hope for an ugly, withered, elderly woman. Oh no. Far too simple.

Instead, Miss Bruntt was a slim, willowy, dark-haired creature of uncertain virtue; all dark, sultry mystery and elfin cheekbones. Very tight shoes; even tighter corset.

And there she sat on the edge of Slytherin's desk, bathed in the orange candlelight like it was the most natural thing in the world! And what's more – it _suited_ her! _Candlelight_ suited her. Rowena knew for a fact that when her own face was cast into shadow, she was less Greek Goddess and more Cubist Movement. One of those particularly interesting ones, with the nose on the forehead and the ears on the neck.

It took Rowena less than three seconds, without knowing a thing about her, to realise that she wasn't at all enamoured with Miss Bruntt.

Her dislike increased massively as Salazar stared at her, very silently, for an uncomfortably long period of time. Miss Bruntt smiled back.

Then Rowena said: 'Ah-hem.'

Salazar quickly snapped out of it, apparently quite embarrassed. Rowena was particularly tempted to punch him. He said, 'This is – er – Sophia Bruntt, my…half-cousin?'

'Something like that,' said Sophia, cheerily. Now Rowena concentrated, there was a hint of Slytherin about her, but it was only very vague; more to do with the way she held herself than in her looks. She was less pale, for one thing, and her hair was dark brown. Her eyes matched. They were large and wide and just a little bit spooky.

Concentrating even more, Rowena noticed she was dressed in a mourning costume.

'Er…hello,' Rowena mumbled, awkwardly.

'Hello,' said Sophia, fixing her big eyes on her.

'Er,' said Salazar. 'It's, er, nice to see you again, Soph. It's been a long time.'

'A very long time.' She finished inspecting Rowena and faced him again. 'We've a lot to catch up on, my dear.'

'Yeah. I imagine.'

And so the conversation went on. Rowena glared at the ground, thinking, in graphic detail, how much she'd like to drag Salazar through a puddle by his stupid big nose. Don't get sad – get angry. Oh, the bloody…

Oh no, of _course _I get on with you, Rowena. Yes, we get on like a house on fire when we're locked in cupboards and kissing and endangering our dismal little lives. Yep, that part's fine. But once I've got you whipped up into a desperate, confused, hormonal frenzy, then it's just too _complicated_. It's a lot _simpler _with Heather.

Oh, but it doesn't have to be that way _forever_, Rowena. Oh, _no_. Are you quite alright waiting there in silence while I share reminiscence with a mysterious woman on my table? You _are_? Oh, _terrific_. Do give me a bell if you need anything.

_Testicles of fury! By the light of the silvery moon, I will call upon my Gods, and I will destroy your smarmy black soul!_

'I'm Rowena,' she said suddenly, interrupting their conversation mid-flow, 'headmistress. How are you enjoying the castle so far, Soph?'

'Oh, it's lovely,' said Sophia, 'really very nice. Must have cost you a fortune, poor thing—'

'How long were you thinking of staying?' From the corner of her eye Rowena could sense Salazar watching her, though she couldn't determine his expression. She didn't face him, but instead stared at Sophia with steely determination to Make A Point. Any point. Oh, she was in that sort of mood!

Sophia merely shrugged. 'Not very long, I expect. But I thought I might drop by, in passing. I called to see your parents, Sal, on my way over – I think they'd like a correspondence from you.'

'Hm,' said Salazar, 'I bet they would. How are things at home?'

And just like that, the conversation was off her once more. Lung fluff. It'd serve him damn right if she stormed out of the room right now! Oh yes – and she'd slam that door after her, and –

And he wouldn't bloody notice, of course. What was wrong with him? Either he hated her and was lying, or he didn't and was just generally crap. Or he hated her and was crap. Either way she wasn't happy, and by God she intended to make that clear:

'Why are you here?' she demanded, interrupting them once more.

'Oh,' said Sophia, 'well, since you ask—'

Salazar very quickly began to say, 'Soph, I think you'd better—'

'—I'm here to discuss my marriage.' She smiled an innocent smile. 'To Salazar.'

* * *

Helga was a God, and these amateur lovers were the sinful mortals. With a strike of her broom she'd throw a bucket of cold water over their excitable libidos, no doubt about that. She was practically a reverse Cupid, but without the nappy and the wings.

She could have wings, if she wanted. Could do anything if she wanted.

And if she came across Godric Gryffindor engaged in an act of osculation within these corridors, she'd have no qualms about dividing him from his ghoulies forthwith.

Now, her next attack: to prod, to slap, or to throw the broom as if 'twere a javelin?

She walked silently down the third floor staircase, broom held close to her chest and the look of a primal hunter in her eyes. The look said: Put me on corridor patrol duty, will you? Make me dress up specially for a party and then kick me out, will you? Tell me to fight the good fight against sex and violence, will you? Then I'll do it, and I'll do it damn well! Damn well!

_There will be no survivors!_

A great deal of gusto vanished as she turned the corner onto the second floor corridor: for there, slumped against a wall idly with his head drooping, was Godric Gryffindor. Suspended in the air, a few inches from his face, his wand spun slowly around as his index finger directed it, and the glowing red tip illuminated him like a spotlight.

Helga very nearly dropped her broom. Holding her breath determinedly, she took a slow step backwards…

Godric's head spun around, and his wand clattered against the floor. 'Hello?' he said. Of course; wolf ears. 'Hell – Helga?'

Helga froze. Of course he'd seen her now, and clambered to his feet. Hiding was futile. She couldn't outrun him. He wouldn't accept no for an answer. What was there to do?

As he approached, Helga swung out the broom handle and smacked him in the ribs. Godric stared.

A moment or two later, he said: 'Bloody _ouch!_'

Helga didn't speak. Then she hit him again, this time in the chest. Neither of them offered any reaction to her doing so, although Godric looked slightly uncomfortable. To fill in the silence, Helga hit him again – slightly harder – in the arm.

'Alright,' said Godric slowly, 'I suppose I deserve that.'

'No,' Helga replied, 'if I was dealing out what you deserved, you'd be a twitching, whimpering heap on the floor with a broom handle up your arse.'

'Er. That's fair.'

'Possibly coming out of your ear.'

'Very fair.'

'Skewering your brain in three places and splintering into your eyeballs.'

'I completely agree.'

'And I'd be jumping up and down on your cadaver singing "I Know Someone With A Face Like A Potato, Face Like A Potato, Doo-Ra-Doo-Ra-Ay".'

At this, Godric frowned. 'A potato? That's a bit harsh.'

She hit him again, catching a different rib.

Godric said, 'That's really beginning to sting.'

'It's _meant _to. It's not a massage.'

'I see. Some kind of slow, brutal murder, perhaps?'

'Very slow. Very brutal.'

'I see.'

'You won't even know it's happening until one day you look to see that I've skewered you with a mop.'

'I miss you.'

'Yes. I miss you, too.'

'And I'm sorry – I'm really very sorry, for everything.'

Her eyes dropped. So did the broom. 'Yes,' she said, sadly, 'I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry, Godric.' There was an uncertain pause, then Godric took a step towards her. Helga took a step back. 'I'm sorry, Godric,' she said again, 'but no.'

'No—?'

'No.'

'Never—?'

'Probably.'

He stared at her dumbly, his expression unreadable. After a long, reluctant while, he retreated quietly down the corridor and vanished from sight.

Helga picked up the broom and set off in the opposite direction. The next kissing couple, she decided, would be butchered.

* * *

Salazar closed his eyes, his face scrunched up as if expecting an explosion. Rowena didn't look at him, but stared at a smiling Sophia in utter disbelief.

'Marriage,' Sophia repeated, 'that _is _alright, isn't it?'

_Alright? _'I…' began Rowena, although no coherent words followed.

After an unreasonable amount of time, Salazar said: 'Er…well. Ro—'

'Don't!' Rowena managed to shout. Her brain continued: ever call me Ro for as long as you live, you insipid little man-whore!

'Ro, it's not what—'

'Really!'

'—I mean, we're not actually—'

'Really!'

'—I think there's been a bit of a—'

'Really! Really! Has there really!' She attempted to out-stare Salazar, but he met her gaze unflinchingly. Eventually she released a depressed sigh and said, weakly, _'Really?_ This is ridiculous, Salazar...'

'Oh,' said Sophia, as some kind of realisation dawned, 'you two aren't _together_, are you?' Neither of them replied. She continued, 'Because I can understand how this might be a bit of a problem. Oh dear. Sal, had I better—?'

'No,' said Salazar, turning to her briefly, 'I'll do it. Hang on. Ro?'

Rowena followed him wordlessly into the corridor and awaited explanation. He closed the door after her, but seemed in no hurry to address the issue at hand. After an awkward pause he said, 'Lovely day, isn't it?'

Rowena glowered.

'Ah. No. Don't use the death eyes.'

She growled. 'Sally, tell me what's 've got wives and girlfriends popping up all over the damn place.' She sighed. 'Why do these horrifically attractive women keep falling in love with you?'

Salazar shrugged. 'What can I say? Moths to a flame.'

'I just feel so—'

'Horny?'

'—_homicidal_.'

'Ah,' he said uncomfortably, 'well. The thing is: Sophia isn't in love with me at all, and it's very much vice versa. She's just a sort of...friend.'

'You don't have any friends.'

'Charming of you to point out,' he said, with a slight grumble. 'She's a half-cousin, then, or something similar – granddaughter of my great-uncle.'

'Second cousin,' Rowena translated.

'That what it is? Well, we're not married.'

Rowena breathed a mental sigh of relief. She determinedly ignored it. 'Are you sure? Because she seems to think you are.'

'Well, we're not. I'm sure I'd remember that.' He lapsed into a guilty silence, unable to meet her gaze.

'But…?' she prompted.

'But,' said Salazar, 'I might have, er…' He paused, lips twitching silently as he planned his words. Apparently reaching a satisfying conclusion, he said, 'She might have – that is, we might be – er…betrothed. Yeah, that's it. Betrothed.' He flashed a winning smile and added, 'That's all.'

* * *

In a cupboard, a hat was singing:

"Oooh, I'd rather be a big Jessie, ach!

Than tickle a witch's tooth,

I'd rather…whores!...ah…messy,

Ale! ALE! Ra-da-da…ROOF!

IIIIIIIII'D rather kiss a camel (camel!),

I'd rather wimmin' do!

I…ach, I've got it wrong now! Whassit? Ah…Jesse,

And…WHORES! ALE! WOMEN! Whassit? Piss off!"

In a cupboard, her face leaning wearily into her palm, Heather Bettany began to regret ever entering this business arrangement.

* * *

_Betrothed_. Oh, charming. Betrothed. Damn, damn and a double dash of damn for the weekend.

Not that she should worry, of course. No, Sophia was quite clear about that:

'You see, dear, I've never been remotely attracted to Salazar in my life—'

'I'm stood right here,' said Salazar, ego more than a tad bruised.

'—Yes, there you are – but the Slytherin family are terribly enthusiastic when it comes to incest. Very keen to keep it in the family. "It" being Salazar, and "the family" being my vagina.'

'Yes, thank you,' said Rowena, 'I get the picture.'

'I've always been promised Salazar from an early age – before he was born, in fact – and unless I bear his children I don't get a dip in the family fortune. I was married to somebody else but—' she gestured to her dress of mourning, '—as you can see, he's recently met with a nasty end.'

'So did your last husband,' said Salazar. 'Perhaps we should be more suspicious about that.'

'And he was so very rich,' sighed Sophia, speaking over him, 'and he's left me nothing. Now the list of eligible bachelors is beginning to grow quite thin and, quite frankly, I find no problem in marrying Sal, consummating the marriage and leaving to France for fifty years or so, if that's what it takes to get a bit of cash.'

Rowena's jaw dropped slightly. Salazar regarded this with amusement, and said, 'You've got to admit, it's a _sound_ plan.'

Rowena's jaw dropped further, but this time she managed to come to her senses and shut it before Salazar looked at her again. Eventually she said, 'Oh. Well. Er. That sounds…lovely.'

'I thought so,' said Sophia. It was hard to tell if she was being sarcastic, but Rowena suspected she wasn't. Then, as if the last five minutes hadn't occurred, she said, 'Your mother's English is really coming along.'

'Is it?' said Salazar, uninterestedly. 'Glad to hear it.'

'She was chatting a way like a natural. Still pulls that strange face when she tries a verb, though.'

'Terrible.'

'She kept asking if you'd cut your hair—'

'What?' Rowena interrupted. 'What, are we just…are you _getting married_ now? Having - having_ babies?_'

'Of course,' said Sophia.

Salazar just laughed and slipped into a seat next to Rowena. 'Course we're not. Don't be stupid.'

'We _are_,' Sophia insisted. Her voice trembled. 'Salazar, I _need_ babies.'

'It's not happening, Soph.'

'It is.'

'It isn't.'

'It _is!_'

'No, it isn't.'

'_But it is—_'

Ye Gods, thought Rowena, it's never going to end. 'Look,' she said, as the intellectual debate continued, 'you can't get married if one of you doesn't consent, and you definitely can't procreate.'

'But he _does_ consent,' said Sophia, forcefully, 'don't you, Salazar?'

He laughed again.

'You do!'

'I don't.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake,' Rowena mumbled.

'Really,' said Salazar, 'I don't. I refuse to marry you.'

Sophia's nostrils flared. Her big, spooky eyes quivered. 'Are you - refusing my hand?'

'Yeah – I'm refusing your hand.' He laughed again, and shook his head. 'This is fun. I've never refused anyone's hand before; I might make a hobby out of it—'

'Oh, it's a _joke_ to you!' Sophia screamed, leaping suddenly to her feet. Rowena recoiled, but Salazar remained still. 'What about the _money?_'

'Marry somebody else.'

'I've done that! I've married them all!' Her voice snapped. The realisation suddenly dawned on Rowena that there was something not-quite-right about Sophia Bruntt. 'I'm fed up of them, Salazar! Just give me a baby!'

He shrugged. 'Sorry.'

'Why are you doing this?' she whimpered, her tone now pleading as she sank back into her seat. 'You always _said_—'

'I never said.'

'But we're friends! You said! _Grandfather _said!'

'He's dead, Soph.' He shook his head. 'We don't have to listen to him anymore.'

'I want my baby, Salazar! I want-' She stopped abruptly, her expression suddenly calm. She cocked her head and looked between Salazar and Rowena curiously. Those big eyes rolled over Rowena.

'No,' said Salazar, sternly.

Sophia's expression was sombre. 'Oh no,' she said, slowly, 'Salazar, you haven't—'

'_No_,' he said again.

'Oh, William. You're a very - you're a very naughty boy, William.' She giggled. It was childlike and unnerving. 'He's not going to like this one bit, William!'

'He's _dead!' _Salazar roared, and Rowena flinched. 'He's been dead for nearly a decade! I don't have to do what he says anymore!'

'What's your name?' Sophia asked gently, addressing Rowena. She was wide-eyed and half-grinning.

'Er,' she said, 'Rowena. Ravenclaw.'

Sophia rose to her feet, and stood over Salazar like a ghost. Her eyebrows narrowed and her lips were tight as she prodded him in the chest and said, 'You can't ignore it, William. You can't get away from it, William. You agreed, William. You _agreed_-'

'My name's _not_ William,' he snapped, staring back at her, 'and you're insane.'

'Should I go?' Rowena asked, weakly.

'No,' said Salazar, but Sophia had already begun to speak over him:

_'And he shall war! And his war shall kill! And he shall love! And his_—'

Then Salazar _hissed._

And Sophia hissed back.

At first, Rowena thought they were cursing each other, but the sounds were all wrong: the air filled with sharp, venomous, furious whispers. The noises didn't last for long; he soon grabbed her wrist and held her still, and both parties fell silent.

Sophia's breathing came in short, furious gasps. She didn't take her eyes off him.

Uncertainly, Rowena began to say, 'Salazar—'

Sophia's hand sprung from her side and scored a sharp scratch across his face. He let go of her wrist, and she vanished.

All was quiet. Rowena, staring at the space she'd left in disbelief, said, '...Sally?'

A few seconds elapsed. Still with his back to her, Salazar didn't move for quite some time. When he finally did turn around, she was startled to see his expression was completely normal, with half a smile across his face and a smooth, relaxed expression in his eyes. The only detail that belied his false demeanour was the untidy, bloody line that ran across his cheek.

'Now,' he said evenly, 'what were we talking about?'

* * *

Helga prowled the first floor corridor, broom at her shoulder and murderous intent in her gaze. She turned a corner –

'ZACHARY! You put that girl down this instant!'

'_Jesus Christ—!_'

'It's been a BAD DAY'

* * *

'Um,' said Rowena, feebly, 'I don't really remember.'

_The prophecy…?_

'Strange interruptions you get around here, aren't they?'

'Yeah. Er…Salazar?'

_I don't. I refuse to marry you._

'Yeah?'

'Er…nothing.'

'Don't suppose you understood much of that,' said Salazar, a touch uncomfortably, 'I mean, what she was saying towards the end.'

_And he shall war, and his war shall kill…_

'No…no, I didn't – I didn't really hear her.'

_And he shall love –_

'Ah – that's good. She just speaks a load of crap anyway.'

'Er, Sally?'

_And he shall love—_

'Yeah?'

_- and his love shall kill…_

'I feel a bit sick.'

'Oh.' He dabbed the blood on his cheek. 'Terrific.'


	26. Chapter 26: Metaphorical Badgers

**Chapter 26: Metaphorical Badgers**

'Morning, oh lethargic one!'

Rowena kept her eyes determinedly closed. This wasn't the way she had imagined waking up.

'Get up, sleepy knickers.'

'What about my knickers?'

'They're sleepy. I don't know. Get up.'

A foot kicked lightly against her shin. With much reluctance, considerable backache and a great deal of foreboding, Rowena slowly opened her eyes. She blinked a couple of times, briefly examined her surroundings and closed them again.

Then she said, 'Hello, Salazar.'

'Hullo, Queen of the Comatose.'

'Where am I?'

'You're on the floor.'

'Mm.' She adjusted her position slightly and felt the hard, cold surface pressed against her bones. Then she opened her eyes again, and took another look at Salazar as he sprawled above her, lounging casually on the edge of a bed with a mocking smile on his face. He tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows suggestively, so she closed her eyes again.

'Comfy?' he asked.

'Upon whose floor do I currently rest?'

'Your own.'

'Really? Get off my bed, you bastard.'

'It's very comfortable.'

Blurred recollections and hazy memories stirred in her mind like silt in a dirty puddle. Memories of parties and prophecies and marriage and feelings of really contented, delighted pleasure because – because she –

'Was I drunk?'

'No,' said Salazar, folding his legs beneath him like a wayward child, 'you were sick.' He paused to watch her wince before finishing, 'On my trousers.'

'Oh, God,' Rowena groaned, placing her hands over her face, 'was I really?'

'Yes. And then you collapsed. I could have woken you up, I suppose,' he continued, leaning back, 'but you looked so peaceful, lying there in a pool of your own vomit. Really, it'd be like kicking a puppy.'

She groaned again. 'Is it still on me?'

'Mercifully, no.'

She sat up and struggled to her feet, stumbling a couple of times in the process. Her stomach felt empty and her mouth tasted unpleasant, and every single bone ached. And she'd been laying in her own vomit. Ye Gods…

She approached her dressing table and fell into the seat, rubbing her hands over her face and through her severely tangled hair with a look of great distaste. Salazar's reflection watched her with that same, unchanging look of snide amusement, and from this she gathered there was still a significant part of the story she had yet to uncover.

'Alright,' she said, rising to meet his challenge, 'what did I do?'

He just shrugged and laid back across her pillows. A superior grin played across his lips as he rested his head on his hands and stretched out comfortably, and Rowena was only slightly ashamed to admit that he looked...quite nice, there.

'Alright then,' she said, turning her back on him, 'I'll guess.'

'You may try.'

Now…in cases of drunkenness, illness and delirium, what was she prone to do? Other than produce vomit in copious amounts, of course. Waking up on the floor was obviously the general outcome, as was playing Tickle Mr. Turnip with Hat. Cows were occasionally summoned, though she couldn't explain that one in the least. But Hat wasn't—

'Oh God,' she said, wheeling suddenly around, 'I didn't expose myself, did I?'

Salazar laughed wildly, but shook his head. 'No. No, you didn't do that. Not while I was looking, anyway – you might have shown something to a student, but – ow! No need to throw your cosmetics.' He smirked and, much to her relief, said, 'You didn't expose yourself, alas. You were unconscious.'

Rowena was vaguely aware that her cheeks were burning. 'Unconscious?' she repeated, determined that he shouldn't notice.

'Mainly unconscious.'

'Oh dear. I didn't – hang on.' She paused in thought and stared at the door to her bedroom. 'Hang on,' she said again, 'we were downstairs…'

'Give the lady a cigar!'

'Oh Salazar – you _didn't_—!'

'I _did_,' he said, swinging himself upright, 'and I expect a bit of gratitude, after all I've put up with.'

Rowena stared at him for a while in horrified silence. 'Oh, Lordy,' she said, with another groan, 'you did, didn't you? You actually carried me up from the dungeons.'

'Damn straight,' he said, smugly.

'But you're so brittle!'

Salazar spluttered. 'How dare you insinuate such nonsense.'

'I just mean – I mean I'm not – er – waif-like. I have hips and…things.'

'Yes, I daresay I noticed the Things quite often – ow! How many hairbrushes do you own?'

'Quite enough to render you unconscious, thank you. I can't believe you carried me. That's very…chivalrous.' It was a difficult sentence to articulate; one didn't usually associate Salazar Slytherin with chivalry in any form. It was even more difficult to articulate when in an acute state of embarrassment and fighting the urge to, quite frankly, osculate him.

Salazar nodded proudly. 'I ooze chivalry, drip gallantry and marinade myself in courtesy. Which is a lot more than I can say for you,' he added, despairingly. 'Did you know, for example, that I carried you up seven different staircases while you writhed about in a state of semi-consciousness, waking only to verbally abuse me and smack me about the face?'

Rowena stared at him again. She could recall certain vague memories of calling somebody a keratinous pleb, and the fact that she didn't even know what that meant was the least of her worries.

'Oh,' she said weakly, 'you might be right on that one.'

'D'you think?'

'You should have _wingardium'_d me up!'

'Well I would have done, but you kept thrashing around and floating into walls! You're probably going to have a bump tomorrow.'

'Eugh.' She winced and glanced out of the window. The sky was still inky black and eternal. 'It's still Friday, isn't it?'

'Saturday morning, I think you'll find.'

'I hope the party ended well…'

'It was a crap party, Ravenclaw, and everyone went to bed before curfew. I've never seen a more dispiriting sight in my entire life.'

'May I ask you something, Sally?'

'Yes, Rowan?'

'Why, having gone to all that trouble to transport me safely upstairs, did you then lay me down on the floor?'

'Because, having gone to all that trouble to transport you safely upstairs, I decided _I_ was the one most in need of a bed.' He smirked. 'There's a clearly defined limit to my gallantry, and getting punched in the mouth by an unconscious woman just about crosses it.'

'Oh. Fair enough.'

'Ta-ra, Ravenclaw.'

'Yes…bye-bye.'

Rowena closed the door after him and, once confident that his footsteps had died away and he wouldn't return, sauntered innocuously over to her bed hopped onto the mattress, sprawling out across the groove left by his body with a smile.

Then under her breath she whimpered, 'Oh, bloody hell...'

For the benefit of her own health she hopped out again, and elected to sleep on the floor.

* * *

'Er – hello, Rowena—'

'Oh God.'

'Pardon?'

'Nothing.' Rowena turned to Anatole Amery as he struggled against the stream of students intent on entering the Great Hall. With an abashed expression on his face that she had to pity, he hopped past a group of taller seventh years, fell over a first year and eventually clawed his way to the wall by which she stood.

'Ah, hello,' he said, with a lopsided grin, 'knew I'd get through them eventually.'

'You've got to basically think of them like horny salmon, struggling upstream.'

'You know you've got teaching down to a tee when you see your students as randy fish.'

'Certainly,' said Rowena with a smile, ignoring the annoyed glance of an eavesdropping fifth year. 'Do you want me for something?'

'Hm? Oh – yes. I'm afraid it's private. About the, er…' he raised his eyebrows a couple of times. Rowena stared at him blankly.

'About the eyebrows?'

'No, no – the spell. The spell…?'

'Oh, yeah! The spell. Ok, I'm sure I've got a spare minute or two…'

Anatole led the way through the thinning crowds while Rowena followed closely behind. It was hard to dislike Anatole. But in the same way that she'd developed Helga's fear of spiders after years of watching her recoil at the sight, Salazar's constant displays of dislike had rubbed off on Rowena in some small way. Which was probably his intention, now she thought about it.

But partly in defiance, partly because he was a very nice chap and partly because it was always nice having somebody present to dote on you, Rowena had to admit that he wasn't half bad. He wasn't half handsome either, which certainly helped.

'Ok,' said Anatole, as they approached his usual second floor classroom, 'just in here, if that's alright.'

Anatole's classroom was slightly dusty, vaguely musty and a trifle fusty, which was nice if you were a fan of internal rhyme schemes. There were a couple of jars here and there, and a few textbooks piled on the edge of a desk. Other than these details, it was like every other room in the castle: grey, empty and with far too many drapes. Rowena was really beginning to regret the drapes.

'Ok,' said Anatole, marching over to a locked cupboard in the corner and tapping it with his wand, 'I've got a few things in here that we'll need, and a couple of things still on order. Here we go.' He carried a miscellany of objects to the nearest table and laid them out there.

Rowena wrinkled her nose in distaste and observed, 'Hairy.'

'Hm? Oh, yes…wild boar, you know how they get. So, what's here?' He now appeared to be speaking to himself, ticking through a mental tally of ingredients. He tapped each as he spoke: 'Bark of a tree, unicorn hair, piece of silver, raven feather – think it's a raven – er…twigs, yes, and an egg. Hm…blood, water, soil, eyeballs – eugh – and a bit of hairy pig. Yes…what else?'

'No frog parts, are there?' asked Rowena, with a grimace.

'Hope not, I hate frogs. No…what was it? Oh – a bit of the castle.'

'A drape?' she suggested, hopefully.

'Er…no. I was thinking more in the line of a brick.'

'Oh. OK. I'm sure we can manage that.' She wrinkled her nose again, with subtlety. It seemed he hadn't yet noticed how terribly his assortment reeked. 'Do you want any help putting them away?'

'Hm?' he looked up from the vial of blood that had captured his interest and shook his head. 'No, I'm sure I can manage, thank you.'

'So what does the spell involve?'

'It's quite simple, really. I have a couple of friends who perform it for a living, so I expect they'll be lending me a hand. Just a bit of light chanting and burning stuff, really. But it has to be done at a full moon, of course. It's all a bit ritualistic and primal, but well worth the hassle.'

'What does it do?'

'It sort of changes the, er…' he waved his hand flippantly, with a look of somebody very intelligent attempting to explain something extremely complicated to somebody with the known mental capacity of a teabag. 'Just changes the atmosphere, basically. Strips some of the magical charge in the air and adjusts the general perception of reality.'

Rowena did her best impression of somebody much more highly trained in such matters. 'Righty-ho.'

'Consequently,' he continued, transporting the stuff back to the cupboard, 'muggles won't be able to see it, witches and wizards won't be able to apparate to or from it and we should all be much safer all around, basically.'

'Oh. Right.'

He retuned to Rowena and wavered uncertainly for a moment, before saying, 'I hope you don't think me impertinent for asking, but how did you come to found this school with such a…eclectic mix?'

Oh, if only she knew. 'In a nutshell,' she said, thoughtfully, 'dreams, ambitions, high aspirations and a desperate state of poverty.'

'I don't think Professor Slytherin thinks very highly of me.'

'No,' said Rowena, carefully, 'no, I don't think he does. He's alright, though.'

'Yeah?'

'Yes.' Oh Lord help me, she thought forlornly, my leg just went into spasms.'He's not bad at all, really. In fact he's quite…nice.'

'Is he?'

'Yes. Yes, I suppose...he is.' She sighed and shook her head and, without a second look or thought for Anatole, rapidly exited the scene. She really needed Helga.

* * *

The House of Hufflepuff had, since the Mysterious Incident of the Dog-Man in the Night Time, fallen into general disarray. It takes a certain kind of chaos to turn so few students so frenzied in so little time, but (thought Rowena, as a wooden arrow embedded itself in the wall by her head), if anyone was capable of producing the necessary conditions, it was Helga.

Passing a couple of mud-smeared first years as they swung from yellow drapes, she hurried up the staircase to Helga's office and desperately knocked at the door. A short while later, a quiet voice from inside said, 'Yes?'

'Helly, it's Civilisation. Please let me in!'

'Oh God.' The door swung open, revealing Helga – skirts hitched around knees – stood atop a chair, poised with a threatening plank of wood. Rowena regarded her suspiciously before entering and taking a seat behind her desk.

Once sure that she hadn't been followed in, and that an invading army of Hufflepuffs weren't about to break down the door, Helga lowered the plank and followed Rowena to the desk, shaking her head.

'I don't know what happened,' she said, taking a seat opposite her friend, 'I only left them for twenty-four hours – less, even! And it's not as though they didn't have places to go and food to eat. What happened?'

'Hell broke lose?' Rowena suggested.

'Yes…dear Lord. Why did I get the scrag-end of the lot?' She patted down her hair, which had frizzed beyond all recognition, and fumbled through her pockets in search of her wand. She looked rough, but Rowena wasn't about to tell her as much.

A few seconds later, Rowena said, 'You look rough.'

'Eugh.'

'I mean…very rough. Not "three o'clock in the morning and I need the toilet" rough, I mean "my house has just been pillaged by Vikings and they've eaten my favourite badger" rough.'

'Eugh,' said Helga, again.

'Is something tragically wrong?'

'I've just eaten my favourite badger,' she said, forlornly.

There was a considerable pause, broken only by the sound of chanting from the common room. Then Rowena said, 'Jesus Helga, you didn't really eat a badger, did you? Think of the rabies!'

'No, no, I was being…metaphorical.'

'Did you at least cook it first?'

_'Metaphorical!_ Metaphorical.'

Rowena sat back in her chair. She had a spleen to vent; problems to tend. And Helga had eaten a metaphorical badger. Dammit all! Why couldn't she be the only one with dilemmas?

'Ok,' she said, eventually, 'in this case, what does a badger represent?'

Helga sighed. 'Godric.'

Rowena stared. 'You've eaten Godric.'

'Yes. Well – no. The badger represents my chances of _happiness _with Godric.'

'And the eating represents…?'

'A sweeping brush,' she said, sadly.

'You've just sweeping brush'd a happy badger?'

Helga groaned. 'Something like that.'

'Right.' She had to pity her, really. She probably would, if she wasn't so busy pitying herself. It was a tough life, really. 'Helga,' she said, gesturing towards the open window, 'is there anything out there?'

A vase smashed against the office door, followed by the inexplicable howl of a wolf. My, the Hufflepuffs were savage tonight.

Helga sighed. 'Why do all your best plans include jumping out of a window to avoid tribal savagery?'

'I'm just lucky like that.'

And so it came to be that Helga Hufflepuff, Loyal and True, and Rowena Ravenclaw, Wise and Headachy, found themselves on the roof of Hogwarts, Big and Stony.

It wasn't an extremely difficult task; directly beneath the window of Helga's office (and a bit to the side) two sharp slants of roof tile met, forming a wide V of rock. A short and shaky journey through this valley ended in turrets – which they crossed easily – and a tricky ascent up another slant of roof. Then down the other side again.

It was another world up there. Colder, for one thing. The rock was uncared for and littered with leaves, with spots of green moss colouring the dampest surfaces. The roof tiles were loose and slippery, and Rowena had to thank all her Gods that she wasn't afraid of heights. In fact, she rather liked them.

So she and Helga reclined across a flat piece of roof, avoiding the grey puddle that bled nearby. Godlike, they looked across the central quad of Hogwarts and silently watched the figures go by, clutching their schoolbags and doing Lord only knew what to each other.

'It's quite nice up here,' said Rowena, conversationally, 'but my nip-nips are frozen.'

'Your nip-nips?'

'Yes.' She pulled her cloak around her shoulders tightly and stood up, admiring her breath as it froze and danced before her. 'Nip-nips. What do _you _call them?'

'I don't.'

'What, nothing?'

'No,' she said, seemingly surprised by Rowena's questions, 'I don't generally refer to them.'

'Well, that's no life.'

'Sorry. It is cold, though.'

'Do you _have _nip-nips?'

'Of course I have nip-nips!'

'Eugh.' Rowena giggled, and said, 'Imagine not having any nip-nips. You wouldn't know where they ended! Or having many nip-nips…'

'Multi-nip?'

'Multi-nip! Dear God!'

The conversation continued in a similar academic tone for a good five minutes, with Helga occasionally suggesting Rowena was light-headed and Rowena agreeing this was probably the case. Eventually, the discussion turned to slightly more vital matters:

'I saw you with Anatole earlier,' said Helga, hintingly.

'Oh,' said Rowena, 'yes. Nothing of a romantic nature occurred.'

'Did anything of a _sexual _nature occur?'

'No! I'm no scarlet lady, Miss Hufflepuff.' She raised her chin proudly and declared, 'My honour and good name remain in tact.'

'Much to your annoyance,' Helga added, with a grin.

'But enough of that.'

'What did he want?'

Rowena briefly explained Anatole's plans for a ceremony by moonlight, with cloaks, blood, mud, et al. Helga winced slightly.

'Full moon?'

'Yeah. I said we'd have to be there to oversee it. With big sticks, preferably.'

'Oh,' said Helga, mournfully, 'I suppose we'd better, hadn't we? Poor Idiot Boy.' She sighed and added, 'From now on, I propose that no Founders cross-pollinate, for reasons of health and safety.'

A momentary guilty pause filled the cold air.

Very quietly, Rowena said, 'Erm…Helly?'

'Oh God.'

'I think…'

'Dear Lord.'

She could think of no way of ending the sentence, so she slowly protruded her tongue instead.

'Beg your pardon?'

Still she couldn't find the right vocabulary. After a while she mumbled, 'Well…oh God. Erm…Salazar,' and hoped her friend could piece the mutterings together.

Judging by Helga's wide-eyed stare, she'd been successful. After a very long and considerably shocked minute she said, 'Holy Jesus, Rowena, did he get you pregnant?'

'No!'

'Do you love him?'

'No!' She paused long enough to realise she'd thrown her hands defensively into the air, and quickly lowered them. 'No. I don't think so.'

'You don't—?'

'Why do I – why do I bloody hate him so much?' she asked, despairingly.

Helga shrugged.

'And why does he bloody hate _me?_ Everything would be so much simpler, if we'd approached things from a neutral position.'

Helga shrugged again. 'Salazar Slytherin,' she said, despairingly, 'scourge of the universe.'

Rowena nodded.

'Bully. Snob. Git. A bastard of the highest order. Vain, petty, caustic, cold-hearted, uncaring—'

'Yes, yes, _thank you_, Helga.' She hit her forehead against her knee. 'Yes, I'm quite aware of his shortcomings. I just - I can't _help_ it, this - this weird whatever-it-is. It's driving me insane! What do I _do?_'

Helga gestured towards the roof edge and said, 'Jump?'

'In the night, I hear voices telling me to – and I quote – "just shag already". I mean that's just not normal, is it? Is that normal?'

'That's not normal. You're ill! You have the demons of the mind! The Black Badger!'

'What? Oh – dammit, Helga, I wish you'd shut up about badgers! They're really not relevant.'

Helga sniffed in umbrage. 'I meant the Black Badger of the mind. It's a metaphorical thing.'

'Oh aye?'

'It's the thing that burrows into your heart when you're in Bad Love.'

Rowena winced and clutched her heart, as if it had been mauled by a metaphorical badger paw. 'What does it do that for?'

'Because,' said Helga, with the casual horror of an adult reciting the bogeyman threat to an unruly child, 'the Bad Love makes your heart warm inside, but completely impenetrable. So the Black Badger moves in to hibernate, and you can't love at all.' She caught sight of Rowena's expression and hastily added, 'It's not real, obviously – it's just a metaphor. A superstition. A load of nonsense really.'

'What's Bad Love?'

'Um,' said Helga, uneasily, 'you know. Um. Unrequited or obsessive or unhealthy or…you know. Adultery, that kind of thing. It's not _real_.'

Rowena, realising she still clutched her chest, quickly lowered her hand. She remembered, very clearly, the feeling that had occurred to her, that night at the auction: the feeling of something heavy and dark creeping between her lungs and burrowing there. She shook her head. 'That's a horrible superstition.'

'It's just a silly fable. Nothing to worry about.'

'I know, I just…' She sighed. 'Well, it doesn't matter. I'll recover.'

'You'll have to. He's still seeing that Heather girl, isn't he?'

Rowena groaned. 'Damn. I'd forgotten about her. You know' – again she leapt to her feet and peered over the edge of the rooftop – 'it's not like I don't have a fair share of propositions. I have Anatole, for one thing – I could always take Anatole!'

'You took Anatole?' asked, Helga, bemusedly.

'No, I didn't. But I _could've!_ I don't feel a thing for Anatole. Well…just a little thing – but I'm eighteen! I feel a _little thing _for anyone with facial hair! No – I can turn an attractive man down, no problem. But Salazar? Oh, no. As soon as a pretty girl bats an eyelash at him he's down her throat like a…a ham sandwich.'

'Oh,' said Helga, thoughtfully, 'I really fancy one of those.'

'It's proof, isn't it?' Rowena continued, ignoring her. 'Undeniable proof that he doesn't care for me. God, not that I need any proof! "I'm sorry for any _confusion_", he says. "Ooh, it's just _simpler_ with Heather, blah bloody blah"!' She kicked a pebble furiously. It skidded off the roof and clipped a gargoyle on the ear. 'No, I'll get over _him _in no time. No Badger of Death is taking a paw to my arteries, oh no.'

'With cheese on,' Helga mumbled, 'ham and cheese. Yes…I dead fancy one of those. Ro, can we go back outside? My nip-nips are icing over.'

'No. We're staying here until the rage drains from my soul and I lose the urge to stab something.'

'Oh. Alright.' She obediently remained seated, sniffing away the cold and rubbing her forearms desperately. 'Alright,' she said again, to Rowena's back, 'where did you go last night?'

She automatically replied, 'Eugh,' before frowning in thought and pensively resuming her seated position. She stared at the ground for a while. The memories were frozen.

'Well?' said Helga.

Rowena waved a dismissive hand and said, with all honesty, 'I don't remember.'

'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,' said Helga, a trifle offended.

'No, seriously, I don't.'

'Were you drunk again?'

'No. I just…' She shrugged, as her mind attempted to plough through the groggy pit marked "Memories" and found nothing. 'Dunno. It was fine, though, whatever it was.' _And he shall…? _'Anatole spoke to me, I remember that much.'

'Yes?'

'Yes.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Poor boy. I'm sure he's a good sort, really. But I just...I can't remember. Hang on.' She frowned. She strained to catch that last fleeting recollection. 'I was...sick,' she managed, 'I must've...gone somewhere and...been very sick...'

'Sounds lovely,' said Helga, eyebrow raised.

She snapped out of it. 'Yeah, great. Gods, what a let-down. No more parties – that's the new rule.' _Obliviate. _'They always end badly.'


	27. Chapter 27: Wolf's Den

**Chapter 27: Wolf's Den**

'Miss?'

Rowena's eyelids flitted reluctantly open. After the usual moments of early morning confusion – where am I, what am I sleeping on and what the hell is that thing on my foot? – she managed to drag herself upright and rub the sleep from her eyes. Groggily, with a headache that threatened to push the eyes straight out of her head, she removed the weighty tome from the foot of her bed and back to the bookshelf from whence it came. Then she crawled back into bed.

'Miss?'

Dammit, the voices were back.

'Er…professor?'

My, the voices were very formal today.

'Professor? Are you there?'

'Who's the –? Oh. What?' Not the voices, then, but the other irritating noise in her head: a student.

'Can I see you?'

Rowena glanced briefly downwards and, to herself, mumbled, 'Hope not, this nightgown's a devil.' Slightly louder, she said, 'Hang on; I'll be out in a second.'

A look in the mirror, a disgusted frown and a dressing gown later, she passed through the door that connected her bedroom to her office, where a small and ugly blonde child of indeterminable sex sat patiently at her desk. Patience was a necessity for Ravenclaw students.

Rowena asked, 'How did you get into my office?'

'Er – you said your door was always open to a student in distress—'

'But it was locked!'

'—And you said that enterprising young students would be favoured above all others, Miss.'

'Yes, but – lock-picking? My God. Didn't I tell you that honesty was the best policy?'

The child shook his/her head.

'Well…good, because that's just a lie spouted by honest people.' She surveyed the child suspiciously, and added, 'And if you break into my office again, I'll box you. Alright?'

The child nodded furiously.

'Now, tell me what's bothering…' She trailed into silence as she caught sight of her reflection, and squinted appraisingly. 'Dear God, I look rough. I must be coming down with something. Does my tongue look funny?'

The child recoiled in fear as Rowena swept down upon it, yellow tongue waggling in a way many would consider intimidating.

''Ell?' said Rowena, through her gaping mouth.

The child nodded fearfully.

'Buggeration.' Served her right for throwing up and then hanging out on a rooftop, she supposed. She swallowed a couple of times, feeling the unpleasant lump on her throat, and massaged her throbbing temple. Oh, how the mighty hath fallen. What was it – feed a cold, sweat out a fever? Very good advice. But was she cold or feverish?

'Er, professor?'

'Would you say I was cold, or feverish?'

The child shrugged.

'Eugh. I'll have to eat and sweat.'

'Er...professor?'

Rowena examined her bloodshot eyes in the mirror. 'Yes?'

'I'm – I'm a bit worried.'

'Hm?'

'John's disappeared.'

Rowena lowered the mirror. The word made her mouth dry. 'Dis—disappeared?'

The child nodded.

'Is he a student?'

The child nodded again.

'Quite small?' She flicked open her diary – the moon was still waxing…full moon three days away…

'He hasn't been back since yesterday.'

Three days…but could it be possible?...

'Right,' said Rowena quietly, her mind racing. She swallowed. 'Right. Well, that's fine. We'll – erm – we'll have a look for him, don't worry. What's his name?'

'John Richards,' said the child, evidently taking some comfort from Rowena's impersonation of a woman at ease, 'he's in second year.'

'Alright – I'll find him for you. Don't you sodding worry.'

Twelve minutes later, dressed and brushed, Rowena had darted down the stairs, through Ravenclaw common room and along the second floor corridor. She didn't know where she was going, who she was looking for or what she would tell them, but in moments of panic she found it very comforting to dash. If she dashed enough, she'd find someone – John or Helga or Godric or –

'Salazar!'

The Man Himself wheeled around to watch her dash towards him. Slightly breathless, and a lot worse for wear, she roughly grabbed the collar of his shirt.

'Ravenclaw,' he said, with half a smirk, 'you look…dilapidated.'

'What are you doing here?'

'Well,' he said slowly, with a mocking expression she had no time for, 'it's a Monday, we're in school and I'm a teacher. Perhaps if we pool together our collective intelligence, we can make some sense of these mad clues—'

'Oh God – I'm going to be sick.'

'Not again, I've just had these washed—'

'Godric, he's – Godric —'

'What?'

'He's _got _someone…'

For a moment or so, Salazar didn't move. Then, very slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders and said, 'Are you sure?'

'No! I mean, I – he – someone's missing. A student. I don't know—'

Salazar faced her very directly, but his eyes stared pensively over her shoulder. For a minute or so, all was silent. Then the squeak of a shoe told them life was approaching, and he lowered his hands.

'Come on,' he said gently, nudging open a classroom door, 'in here.' The door swung closed after them. Rowena was mildly surprised to find herself in Anatole's usual classroom.

'OK,' said Salazar, sitting in Anatole's chair, 'what's happened?'

Very quickly, Rowena recounted her conversation with the ugly child. Salazar remained still.

'There's still three days until full moon,' Rowena reminded him, as he absorbed the facts.

'Can't be Godders,' he said, pensively.

'What else is there?'

Salazar didn't reply.

'He might – he might not be _missing_,' said Rowena, more optimistically than she truly felt, 'he might just be, you know, missing. Yes?'

Salazar nodded. 'Yeah. Still – we've got to do something.'

'We'll tell the teachers; search the grounds—'

'I meant about Godders. We can't have him running around like this once a month…'

'Anatole has something planned.' She explained his intention to perform a spell in three night's time, guarded from any "outside forces" by everyone willing to stand by with a sharpened stick.

'I'll do that,' said Salazar. He didn't declare it bravely, but dutifully – almost reluctantly.

'Me too,' said Rowena, 'and I expect Helga will want to.'

'Hm.'

'In the meantime, I think we should impose a curfew. And – and perhaps confront Godders.'

'And I'll look for John. Are you alright? You look disgusting.'

Rowena glanced down at herself, and recalled the state of her appearance. 'I am disgusting. I think I'm ill.'

'How's your temperature?' For the briefest moment his hand twitched, as if he was going to hold it to her cheek or forehead. Rowena instinctively flinched, and it was perhaps this move that made him subtly change the course of his hand, and instead tidy his own hair.

'I've feel as bad as I look,' she mumbled, 'which is bad luck for all of us.'

'Are you teaching?'

'In about half an hour, yes.'

There was the slightest of pauses. Then Salazar said, 'You get ready, then. I'll look for John.'

'Yeah…bye.'

She bathed, dressed and brushed once more, but there was little hope in disguising the fact that Rowena was, in fact, desperately ill, and ready to regurgitate every meal she'd eaten in the last three months.

With that pleasant thought in her mind, she once again descended the staircase and set off in the direction of her cookery classroom. Already two minutes late for lesson, the corridors appeared to be deserted; there was no sign of student life and, to her disappointment, even less sign of Salazar.

Now three minutes late, she took a deep, unsteady breath outside the cookery classroom and entered. The mixed class of sixth and seventh year girls stared at her through the cloud of flour that filled the room, greeting her with the obligatory "Morning, Professor".

Helga greeted her with a smile, which quickly faded upon seeing her expression and turned into a wince. Rowena took a seat at the communal teacher's desk, rifled through her notes and let Helga begin the lesson herself.

'What's up?' Helga asked quietly, once the class set to work.

Rowena told her.

'Bollocks,' said Helga.

'Exactly. And I'm ill.'

'You look it.'

Rowena sighed. 'Everyone is so very complimentary this morning.'

'Why don't you go back to bed? I'm sure I can—'

'I'll manage.' She gestured to the small mountain of unmarked homework stacked upon the desk and said, 'I'll sort these out; you circulate. And keep your eye on that one,' she said, gesturing to Jasmine King, Heather's ginger-haired friend, 'because I've no idea what she puts into Yorkshire puddings, but it shouldn't make your urine turn blue.'

Helga obediently left to circulate around the desks and bubbling cauldrons, making a point to loom over Jasmine menacingly. For a few minutes, to the background noise of student chatter, Rowena attempted to mark the homework but found herself unable to do so. Her mind raced and throbbed.

And then – hooray for salt in the wound! – the door swung open, and Heather Bettany herself strolled in, looking as pristine as ever while Rowena silently rotted.

'Oh, hello Miss,' said Heather, smiling her ironic smile.

'Hello, Heather. Nice of you to join us. And that's Professor, thank you.' _I'll scratch your beady little eyes out, you preened jezebel…_

'So sorry I'm late,' she said, voice dripping with mock-sincerity as she stood before Rowena's desk, 'I ran into Salazar on the way over, and…well, he missed me, bless him.' She smiled. 'You look terrible, Miss. Hungover again?'

'I'm ill. What's _your _excuse?'

She chuckled. 'Professor Slytherin doesn't think I look terrible. Do you know something, Miss?' Heather mimed a furtive glance over her shoulder and whispered, 'He's a fantastic kisser.'

_Don't say it Rowena, don't say it –_

'Yes he is, isn't he?'

Heather's smile dropped slightly. With a horrible sinking feeling, Rowena realised _she'd said it._

'Now go to your seat,' she said, desperately pretending she hadn't, 'and do your work, for once.'

With a final hateful smile, Heather flounced away and joined the red-haired Jasmine.

_Oh dear Lord, Rowena…you idiot._

Well…how much of an idiot was she, really? She'd practically admitted her feelings to Salazar on the night of the shin-dig, and he'd…practically returned the sentiments. Practically. "_It's just easier with Heather_"…

Yes – that part of the evening she could recall, with crystal clarity. The cold window, the whiney music and the quiet mumbles, and Salazar's face…oh, why couldn't he just have sex with her and get it over with? The man was a mystery, bathing in riddle and towelling himself down with an enigma. Even now, even after confession, she had no idea where she stood with him. And it would help, of course, if she could remember what had happened afterwards…

Sometime later, Helga rejoined her at the teacher's desk. Very quietly, so not to be heard by the girls on the front row – which included, to all-around dismay, Heather Bettany – Helga said, 'Ro, are you alright? Seriously?'

'Fine,' Rowena mumbled.

'Only you've been staring at that piece of paper for the last twenty minutes, and it's upside down.'

'Oh. Right.'

'Are you OK?'

Very quietly, Rowena groaned. 'I think she's going to rip out my spleen with her perfectly manicured fingers, Helly.'

'Heather?'

'Yep.'

'Ignore her.'

'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'Well…watch her.' While Helga obediently did as she was asked, Rowena let her gaze scan the room, resting on one of the anonymous students on the back row. And then It happened: Heather nudged Jasmine, Jasmine nudged Magdalena, Magdalena nudged Kristen and all four of them stared, silently, at Rowena's forehead.

After a few moments, Rowena returned her gaze to the homework on her desk, and felt the stares gradually leave her.

'See?' she whispered.

Helga nodded. 'Yes, I see. But it's not as if she went for your liver.'

'Oh God – don't you get it, Helga? I'm Mrs Trethewick!'

Helga stared searchingly at her friend for a moment or two. 'Wow,' she said, very slowly, 'this is like the conclusion of a really bad detective novel. Who in hell's name is Mrs Trethewick?'

'Mrs Trethewick!' Rowena repeated, desperately. 'Don't you remember? The Herbology Mistress, Mrs Trethewick! We all used to stare at her Adam's apple until she had to look away from us, and then we'd all giggle and salute each other. _I'm Mrs Trethewick_.'

'Oh,' said Helga, gently, 'don't be silly. Your Adam's apple is much less pronounced, for one thing.'

'But—'

'And you're clean shaven. And you don't start gargling in delight whenever someone mentions mandrakes—'

'My point _is_—'

'You're not Mrs Trethewick, Ro,' said Helga, with a smile, 'you're just a bit unhinged. And Heather's a scabby old rat with bad breath and a penis.'

'A what?'

'Probably.'

Five minutes before the lesson ended, Rowena made a hasty exit before Heather had the opportunity to impale her with a shoe. This early exit also gave her the chance to lay her hands on Godric before he could escape – but she had to confess that the risk of impalement was still the driving force behind her decision.

Strangely, she didn't even realise Salazar was out of her thoughts until she saw him appear at the foot of the staircase. And when she saw him, her stomach did a strange flip that had little to do with illness.

'Are you looking for Heather?' she asked, by way of greeting. Her subconscious was still sore about what she'd said about him.

'Er – no,' said Salazar, caught temporarily off-guard by her random questioning, 'why, where is she?'

'No idea,' she lied. 'Have you found John?'

'Yeah, I found him – and he's fine.'

A huge sigh of relief flooded through her body. 'Thank God. Where was he?'

'Stupid bastard locked himself in the Owlry,' he reported, flicking a tawny brown feather from his shoulder as he spoke. 'The gamekeeper found him hiding under the windowsill, half pecked to death by carrier pigeons. But we managed to get him out, between us.'

'Who looks after those owls?' Rowena asked, noticing the talon scratch that scored across his cheek.

'I think we forgot to look into that. They've gone savage.'

'Oh. Bum.'

'To put it lightly. Have you spoken to Godders yet?'

Rowena shook her head. 'I'm on my way now. What am I meant to be saying?'

'I'm sure you'll think of something.'

Further down the corridor, a door creaked open and a motley crew of students spilled into the corridor. Remembering Heather's presence nearby, Rowena said, 'I'll be off, then. Do you know where he is?'

'Fourth floor, I think.'

'Right. Thanks.' Still cursing 'flu, illness and bacteria in general, Rowena ascended the nearest staircase, silently praying Salazar would clear off before Heather got her mucky paws on him.

But, unbelievable as it seemed, she did have bigger things to worry about. Bigger, hairier and sharper things, to be precise, on the fourth floor.

She arrived as the final student – a bespectacled fourth year with acne – bid Godric his farewells, promising to hand in his homework tomorrow as he did so.

'That's quite all right,' said Godric, 'as long as I see it – ah – hello, Rowena – before Wednesday afternoon. Goodbye, Daniel.'

Rowena waved at him nervously. She'd never really had much of a rapport with Godric; in her mind, he'd existed solely for her amusement and Helga's sexual gratification. And now she was about to confront him about his nocturnal activities and accuse him of the murder of at least two students. What better way to spend an afternoon?

'Hello, Rowena,' he said again, pleasantly, 'did you wish to see me?'

'Er, yes. Yes please, Godric, if you don't mind.'

'Not at all, do come in.'

Rowena closed the door and perched herself at the edge of a student's chair, while Godric tidied away the bric-a-brac that littered his desk. The faint tapping and buzzing of a fly under a glass echoed from his desk, before he carefully released it out of the open window. Oh, he _would _be the werewolf.

'There,' he said, conversationally, 'I'm sure that will, er, suffice.' They shared an uncomfortable silence for a moment, before he attempted: 'You look…well.'

Rowena groaned. 'I'm ill! _Ill!'_

'Yes – yes, of course. The weather's getting cold, and – er –'

'I'm not usually this inflamed!'

'No, no, of course—'

''Ook at my 'ongue!'

'Yes, it's – er – delightful.'

Rowena retracted her tongue and rubbed her eyes. 'It's not been a great day, to be honest with you, Godric.'

'Yes, I…I see.'

The uncomfortable pause returned. Rowena rose to her feet, swayed uncertainly for a moment and perched herself on the edge of a desk. Revealing your yellow tongue to someone doesn't make the accusation any easier.

Godric cleared his throat. 'Is it about…Helga?'

'What? Oh – no. No, not Helga.'

'Oh.' He sighed slightly and said, 'I rather hoped it would be.'

_Yes_, thought Rowena, _me too_. She sighed. 'No, it's not about Helga. It's about something…marginally more difficult to introduce.'

Godric sat down. 'Ah?'

'Ah. Yeah. Well…frankly, I know you're a werewolf.'

The pause was longer this time. Godric's whole body stiffened for a minute, exaggerating his usual stance – his shoulders further back, his chest wider, his jaw higher – then all at once, like a deflating balloon, he relaxed. His shoulders sagged, and the air of formality vanished. He sighed.

'Yes,' he said, looking her in the eye, 'I thought you might. Helga told you, I suppose?'

'Yeah,' she said quietly. She couldn't fully explain why, but having removed everything formal and familiar about him made her feel immensely guilty.

He shrugged. 'Well, I knew it'd get out. Have you told anyone else?'

Rowena shook her head.

'Right. That's, er…that's good.' He sighed again, gently. 'Did you want to talk about it, or…?'

'Well' – and here's the difficult part – 'those kids—'

'No,' he interrupted, quickly, 'I didn't kill them.'

'Oh. Er, are you sure?'

He nodded intently, but diverted his gaze. 'I'd remember. I'd remember killing them.'

'Right.' It seemed to Rowena that he was trying to convince himself more than her. 'Er. Only, you see, they died at the last full moon—'

'It wasn't me,' he repeated, more sternly than before, 'it wasn't me.'

'How do you know?'

He looked up at her sharply, and Rowena found herself subconsciously clenching her fists…just in case. 'I stop myself. I can control it.'

'Oh.' Now he wasn't even convincing himself. 'I see. Where do you go?'

'Dungeons,' he mumbled, 'and I barricade the door and lock myself in.'

'But how do you know—?'

'I didn't kill them!' It wasn't a shout, because the volume of his voice hadn't increased. But the intensity had. As soon as the words were delivered, his face twitched and he scratched his forearm in a way that, while not dog-like, was certainly not human-like. Then he sighed and shook his head.

'Sorry,' Rowena mumbled. Had she heard of werewolves wolfing before full moon? Triggered by, say, anger? Annoyance? Guilt?

Godric shook his head again, and quickly composed himself. 'I can control it, Rowena. Most of the time.'

'How can you control it? How do you know you're doing it?'

'Because I'm – strong,' he muttered, feebly, 'mentally. I can control the wolf. You wouldn't understand.'

'No,' she agreed, 'probably not.'

'And if I killed them – well, I'd know. You wouldn't understand that, either.'

She dared one final question: 'What do you mean, you can control it most of the time?'

Godric stared at her intently for a moment. Then he laughed, and hopped lithely to his feet. Rowena, for feelings of security, followed him. 'I suppose,' he said, sweeping the final knick-knacks from his desk and into the cupboard, 'I'm two beings, really: half _were _and half _wolf_. And the _were's _always watching the wolf, and the wolf's always watching the _were_. And even though we take it in turns to be in control, we've always got the other one at the back of our head, ready to take over whenever we get half a chance.' He smiled and scratched his ginger hair, which curled around his fingers. 'If ever I'm angry or frightened or upset as a human, the wolf in me stirs. But whenever I'm a wolf, the human in me keeps watch. But it's a delicate balance, you see Rowena? And if I'm a wolf, and the human in me is angry, frightened or upset – well, sometimes he joins in with the wolf.' He smiled again. There was nothing happy about it.


	28. Chapter 28: The Virtuso Duo Strike Back!

**Author's Note: **Thank you for reading my fanfiction, and I really hope you've enjoyed it. This is the last chapter of Founding Hogwarts – but fear not, you still have reason to live on; for there _is _a sequel! You can access "Losing Hogwarts" very easily through my profile page.

I promise I'm not flogging a dead horse.

…Promise!

**Chapter 28: The Virtuoso Duo Strike Back**

For the first time in a very long while, Rowena found herself breakfasting in the Great Hall. For the first time ever, she found herself breakfasting at the newly assembled Teacher's Table.

She liked the idea of a Teacher's Table, in theory; the alliteration gave it a nice bounce. The title commanded authority. It suggested grandeur, respect – maybe even drapes. (No, not the drapes – never again the drapes). What it probably _didn't _suggest was Sausage of War, which was what it had, in fact, spawned.

It was a game of skill and dexterity; its creation was less of an accident and more of an act of God. It began with a gap in the table, continued with the placement of said sausage in the gap, and ended with bread rolls, potatoes, cocktail sticks and cutlery being thrown at the Mighty Meat until it was dislodged. Five points if you can make it tilt, ten if you can make it snap and fifteen if you can dislodge it completely.

For now, the game remained a secret shared by Rowena, Helga, Anatole, Salazar, the gamekeeper and the unfortunate transfiguration teacher who became caught in the cross-fire and speared with a fork. Godric, a few seats down the table, had observed the activities with interest for a moment or so, but, for various reasons, decided not to join in. Besides, it was very difficult trying to pass Sausage of War off as an innocuous academic discussion when professors were clambering all over the Teacher's Table to try their luck at uprooting a sausage.

Rowena was keen to extend the game for as long as possible, and for several reasons: mainly because, for the first time in a long while, she could honestly claim to be having a _great time_. Secondly, she strongly suspected the morning's fun and games would be an exclusive one-off, borne of anxiety for what the night would hold: for that night marked the appearance of the full moon, and for much of the staff this meant guarding Anatole from a werewolf of whose identity they were unaware. Finally, she had the satisfaction of frolicking with Salazar before Heather's very eyes, and she was completely unable to do anything about it.

Of course, she'd positioned herself as close to the Teacher's Table as possible, and sat pouting, giggling and flicking her hair seductively, grinning and waving at Salazar whenever he looked up. But Rowena was elated to note that he rarely returned her smiles, or even looked at her in the first place. Clearly, they were still on ill terms.

And speaking of ill…

'Medicine,' said Salazar, tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth in concentration, 'drink up.' He threw a bread roll; it skimmed across the table and hit a first year, who collapsed in shock.

'Eugh,' said Rowena, shaking the jar that lay sealed in front of her. It was watery and black, with gooey lumps that clung to the side and dribbled unattractively.

'It's good for you,' Salazar assured her.

'He's right,' said Anatole, who appeared to be revelling in the fact that he was in such close proximity to Salazar and not yet insulted.

'Brown nose,' Salazar muttered.

'It tilted!' said Helga.

'No, it didn't,' Salazar drawled.

She narrowed her eyes and muttered, 'I'll make the bastard tilt, just watch—'

Rowena peeled the lid from the medicine jar, immediately releasing an acrid scent. With a wrinkled nose and steely determination, she clamped her lips around the brim and downed the lot, lumps and all.

'_Eugh_,' she said, with a shudder, 'there! Downed it in one.'

'Oh yeah,' said Salazar, absently, 'you're not supposed to take it all at once.'

'What?!'

'_Tilt! Tilt, damn you!_'

Salazar smirked. 'Only joking. It won't do you any harm.'

'Well, it tastes disgusting.'

'Of course it does; it's good for you.'

'Helga,' said Anatole, diplomatically, 'I think you might be—'

'_Utter bastard! Why won't you tilt?!_'

Philosophically, Salazar whispered to Rowena, 'A Hufflepuff defeated by a sausage. What does this tell you about evolution?'

'_It's broken! It's broken! This damn game's broken!_'

---

Alas, if only the rest of the day could be so pleasant.

Mid-morning was signalled by a cookery lesson, held for the benefit of a group of restless pubescent boys more interested in modelling phallic symbols out of dough than the intricacies of puff pastry.

'They'd have loved Sausage of War,' Helga mused, catching sight of a particularly artistic boy on the second row.

Rowena, intrigued by the strange shape a bespectacled boy was sculpting nearby, said, 'I just can't be bothered today, Helly. Can't be bothered at all.'

'I know how you feel.' She joined Rowena and turned her head in an attempt to make sense of the bespectacled boy's artwork. 'What's that, a bottom?'

'I have no idea, but it's making me feel slightly ill.'

'Hm.' She wrote a discreet zero by the boy's name on the register. 'How long do you think we'll be out tonight?'

'Dunno. As long as it takes.'

'What time are we meeting?' She peered again at the dough. 'Do you think they're testes?'

'Eleven-thirty; spell beginning at midnight. If that's what they look like, he needs to see a doctor.'

'Eugh. Can't make heads nor tails out of it—'

'—No pun intended—'

'—myself.' Helga sighed, and nervously wrapped a curl of hair around her index finger. 'I hope it isn't Godric.'

'Course you do. We all do.'

'I don't think I'd like to beat him to death with a sharpened stick.'

Rowena nodded in sympathetic agreement. 'I can think of better ways to spend an evening myself.'

'But if it isn't Godric, then who is it?'

'Well, if Anatole does this spell tonight it might help us find out.'

'Yeah.' She sighed again. 'I'm just not sure that I _want _to find out. Anatole, though – he's a nice bloke.' There seemed to be more than a small hint present in the comment.

'Yes,' Rowena replied, with a roll of her eyes, 'he's lovely. Friendly, sweet and—'

'Sexy.'

'I was going to say "intelligent", but you're not wrong there either.'

'I mean,' she said, with a childish giggle, 'phwoar.'

'You're welcome to him!'

Helga giggled again, but shook her head. 'No, thanks. But, you know…' She waved her hands around in a manner that vaguely resembled a swimming fish. 'Plenty more in the sea, and all that—'

'Yes, thanks, I think I understand your tactfully hidden messages.'

'He's got a lovely beard, you've got to admit.' She gestured briefly to the sea of boys that surrounded her and said, 'Do you think we should give them their hearing back now?'

Rowena squinted again at the bespectacled boy's dough and said, 'Oh, they've got _nipples!_'

Helga was silent. The boys – now once again blessed with the power of hearing – stared at Rowena in stunned disbelief.

And, very quietly, Rowena said, 'Shit.'.

---

'Right, Hat! You listen to me and you listen right – oh, dear God!'

'_Out!_'

Rowena quickly obeyed, leaping from Hat's usual cupboard and back into the corridor. She slammed the door shut after her and wheezed a few deeply shocked breaths.

Thirty seconds or so later, she knocked timidly at the door and said, 'Are you…er, decent?'

'Aye,' Hat growled from within.

Rowena took another deep breath and tentatively opened the cupboard door, throwing light upon the scene, before closing it again after her and plunging the room into its former darkness. She cleared her throat. Much of her original gusto had evaporated.

Hat coughed. 'Ye should always knock before ye comes barging in on a man.'

Rowena nodded. 'Sorry.'

'Could've been doing _anything._'

'You were!'

'Aye.' He coughed again. 'Well, when ye lives alone for so long ye don't expect wimmin' to come flinging the doors open, all unannounced. 'S _impolite_.'

'Sorry,' said Rowena again, meekly.

'Aye. Well don't to it again.'

Rowena nodded dumbly. Since arriving at Hogwarts, she'd seen some things she thought she'd never see – and, more to the point, never wanted to.

'Well, what did ye want?'

Rowena – still recovering – could do no more than mumble, 'I dunno…'

'Then get ye out, or at least take ye dress off!'

Rowena opted to do neither. Memory stirred. 'Heather! That's what I'm here for, Hat – Heather bloody Bettany! Well?'

Hat was briefly bewildered. 'Ach? She's not here.'

'I know that.' She was tempted, momentarily, to prod him forcefully to better her interrogation technique, but decided firmly against it. You never knew what you were prodding with Hat. 'What's she been doing here, hm? And don't even _think_ about lying.'

'Dunno what ye's talking about,' said Hat, with badly applied innocence.

'Yes you do. You told her where I was that night – and I bet you told her a lot more than that! Hm? _Hm?_'

'Ach! Jus' the little things…'

She narrowed her eyes. As far as she could recall, all she and Hat ever spoke about were "little things". 'Oh yes? Like what?'

'Ach…'

'And if you don't tell me,' she added threateningly, 'I'll send you to the Owlry and let them use you as nesting material!'

'Ach! Jus'—jus' what ye says about Slythie, that's all. 'S'all she asks about.'

'Slythie?' _Balls. _Of course. 'What kind of things does she ask about?'

'Jus'…jus' what ye say, and how ye knows him. Jus' that sort of thing.' Evidently, Hat had adopted the Helga Hufflepuff way of breaking bad news: liberally insert the adverb "just" to minimize the gravitas of each word. Well, it didn't work when Helga tried it and it damn well didn't work when Hat did.

'And what have you told her?' she demanded.

Hat looked helpless. 'Ach, I cannae remember! She plied me with goods an' alcohol!'

'Dammit, Hat! Remind me to stick you under an encyclopaedia next time I see you.'

'Ach! Ye whore!'

'Shut up.' Rowena folded her arms in a mute display of annoyance, and somehow contrived to both seethe in anger and melt in despair. What if Heather had _told_ someone? What if she'd told _Salazar? _Well…why would she? If she only had the nerve to skewer her with something, or turn back time and exclude her at the beginning of term, or magically assume her appearance and…

Oh Salazar, you horrible little man, look what you've done to me!

'Ale!'

Rowena sighed and quit her seething. She stared at Hat with an appraising eye and, full of impatient annoyance, demanded, 'Look, what _are _you, exactly?'

'I'm a Sorting Hat!'

'But what do you _do?_'

Hat was temporarily silenced. Then, rather feebly, he volunteered, 'Sort?'

'But – what does that even _mean?_'

Hat's eyes were made of buttons, and therefore unable to stare, blink or convey a sense of bewilderment. But if they could, they would've. 'Uh…I sort,' he said again.

'What do you sort?'

'Uh…things…'

'Such as?'

'Ale!'

'Ah. Whores too, I suppose.'

'Wimmin!'

'Obviously.' Rowena stared at him for a while, tilting her head slightly to survey his frayed brim.

Hat released a low growl in response, and barked, 'Hands off me, ye jezebel. Ye's not getting into my delicates!'

'You don't _wear_ delicates,' Rowena explained, wearily, 'you're a hat. You have no legs, for one thing, never mind the other parts necessary for requiring a pair of pants. You can neither reproduce nor enjoy the carnal pleasures. You have no flesh to caress, no ear in which to whisper sweet nothings, no heart to skip a beat, no breath with which to heave long sighs, no lips to gently graze and no eyes to – anyway,' she added quickly, realising she may have got carried away, 'you're a bastard and we all hate you.'

'Ach!'

'Yeah.' She clumsily adjusted her position, her hand catching a streak of something grey and slimy. She didn't want to know. 'Anyway,' she said again, 'there's another reason I'm here, Hat, and I'm glad—'

'No carnal pleasures?' said Hat.

'None. As I said, I'm here to—'

'No gentle grazing?'

'—extend the hand of forgiveness—'

'No hands?'

'—and forget about your acts of treachery—'

'I got – I got no lips!'

'—for Christ's sake Hat, this is important!'

'Ach, what's the point?' Hat cried, despairingly. 'I'm only made of a potato sack!'

Rowena stared at Hat in disbelief. 'Good God!' she cried, 'What have I done now?'

Hat sniffed and turned his (for lack of a better word) face away from hers and remained silent. Rowena attempted to extend a comforting arm. In response, Hat mumbled something that sounded like "duck off", but unfortunately wasn't.

'What's _wrong?_'

Hat scoffed. 'Well if ye don't know, there's no point me telling ye!'

'_What?_' She stared after his retreating form in desperation. 'Where's the logic in that statement?!'

'Ye's _so _insensitive!'

'But – Hat, I'm sorry!' Hat continued to snub her. 'Look, whatever I said – I didn't mean it!'

'Ach!' said Hat, apparently very affronted, 'Whatever you said, eh? As if ye didn't know…!'

'Why do you always have to be so bloody sensitive?'

'I just want a bit of understanding!'

'Hat, are you on your period?'

'I need some "me" time right now! Ach!'

'But—'

'I'm sick of ye's attitude! Ye go out, ye don't contact me for weeks, then ye comes waltzing back and expect it to be just the same—'

'I've never waltzed in my life! Hat, please—'

'Well, ye's not sleeping with _me _tonight!'

At this outburst, both parties fell silent. For a considerable length of time. Their minds were locked in deep thought, both mentally considering the exclamation, working backwards from that point and wondering how in hell's name such a thing came to be said.

Very slowly, Rowena said, 'Well…I should hope not.'

Hat's eye twitched.

'Er…I'm going to pretend you didn't say that,' she continued, carefully, 'if you will.'

Hat nodded vigorously. 'Aye. Aye.' There was a further silence. Then Hat said, 'Although...if you fancy it—'

'_Hat!_'

'Aye, yeah, course.' He somehow contrived to cough. 'Aye. Then what is it ye wants?'

Rowena, mind adrift in unpleasant images of Hat rolling over to smoke a post-coital cigarette, honestly couldn't remember. It had been purged from her mind, and replaced with highly detailed mental picture of Hat's possible anatomical workings. She shuddered.

'Gwan!' shouted Hat – evidently able to guess her thoughts from her expression. 'Talk, lassie, or at least hitch ye skirt up!'

Rowena opted for the former. 'I just wondered how much you knew about the future, Hat.'

'Future?'

'Aye,' said Rowena. It was addictive. 'I mean, how much of a prophetical foresight do you have at your disposal?'

Hat's brim curled, which Rowena took to interpret as a shrug. 'Not much, truth be tole. 'Cept headwear, o'course – I can predict headwear fairly well.'

'What…you can predict the future of hats? That seems pointless.'

'Aye – 't'll seem less pointless when you need a Trilby, lassie! Mark my words!'

'But what about the _school_, Hat? Can't you tell me anything about the school?'

'_Ye's _the teacher!' Hat exclaimed, evidently disgusted at her lack of intuition. 'Ye's the one who runs the place! I spend the days sat on a cupboard, rubbing meself against a bucket!' Rowena found it slightly disturbing that he threw a wooden bucket an amorous look as he said so.

Trying her best to ignore this, she asked, 'So you can't tell me anything at all?'

'Trilby!'

'Damn.' She climbed to her feet, trying her best not to touch anything. It was a wise choice; unbeknown to the bucket, Hat's affections often strayed elsewhere. 'And I don't suppose you know how to cure werewolves, do you?'

'Aye!'

'You _do?_'

'Snip snip!'

'I'm _not_ having him castrated!'

---

'Castrated?' Salazar repeated. His voice was incredulous to begin with, but he now had both eyebrows raised for good measure.

Rowena, bouncing on her heels slightly to keep warm, nodded. 'That's all he could suggest.'

'I wonder why I'm not more amazed.'

Rowena gave a short laugh and bounced on her heels again. It was a necessary act: time was rapidly approaching midnight, and the early nights of winter were now at their coldest. The first light sprinkling of snow and frost covered the ground, reflecting the glimmer of the moon and painting everything white. The air was thankfully still, and coloured with the glow of twenty or so wands suspended above their heads. As Rowena bounced, her own wand obediently followed.

Salazar, stood not far to her right, took a couple of steps backwards to avoid the frozen mud he was gently sinking in to. His nose – coloured pink with the cold – twitched. 'How much longer?' he asked, pulling his cloak further around his shoulders, 'I'm freezing. And I feel like an idiot.'

Anatole's wish for black cloaks had been fulfilled, and now every teacher gathered at the edge of the grounds had one swathed around them. Most of them wore there hoods up. Salazar, in an act of defiance, did not.

'It's very dashing,' lied Rowena, 'not at _all_ Grim Reaper.'

'Wish I had a scythe,' he said, thoughtfully, 'I'm in the mood for reaping.'

'Never saw you as an agricultural man, Salazar.'

'Well I'm very good at digging up graveyards.' He'd intended it to be a joke, but the expression on Rowena's face told him he'd been unsuccessful. So he added, 'And I can do wonderful things with a carrot.'

'Eugh. _Strange _and wonderful?'

'Strange, wonderful…some would say _wrong_…'

'Eugh,' said Rowena again, and laughed at the dreamy look in Salazar's eyes. Salazar, proud of his achievement, joined in.

She couldn't explain it, but Rowena felt that the entire day – and this midnight hour, in particular – signalled some kind of shift in time. The night of the spell…everyone coming together, and all secrets out in the open…

Well, _almost _all secrets…

Yes: something had come, in some strange way, full circle. She, Helga, Salazar and Godric – all apart, yet all as one. Still resisting the inevitable bonds that held them together. Friends but enemies, children but adults. Back at school, but in control.

Salazar gave her a sideways look. 'You alright, Ravenclaw?'

Rowena snapped out of it, and smiled. 'I'm feeling strangely philosophical, Slytherin.'

'Oh yes? Anything in particular?'

'Nah.' The two of them watched, with mild interest, the events unfolding nearby: A rough circle of teachers had, without instruction, gathered around the central figures of Anatole and his two friends. A haze of liquid heat seemed to engulf them as they plodded backwards and forwards through the snow, carrying armfuls of ingredients and spell books in preparation for the enchantment in question.

'Wonder how Godders is doing?' asked Salazar, as a cloud passed over the moon.

'Wonder where he's doing it?' Rowena added.

'I saw him in the dungeons earlier. About six o'clock.'

'Oh. Damnation,' she mumbled, 'I still can't believe he's a You-Know-What.'

'Homosexual?'

'_Werewolf._'

'Oh yes.' Salazar sniffed. 'Can't be helped.'

'I mean, how did it _happen?_'

Salazar, seemingly too engrossed in Anatole's activities, didn't reply.

'We're going to have to keep it a secret, aren't we?' Rowena pressed on.

'Hm? Oh, yeah. Definitely.'

'Salazar?'

'Hm?'

'How do you think history will paint you?'

'What?' He turned to look at her, and it struck Rowena how skeletal the cold weather made him appear. He could very easily pass for Death himself if he pulled his hood up.

'I mean,' she said, trying very hard to remove this image from her mind, 'in a thousand years, when you're dead and et cetera. What do you think people will say about you?'

He shrugged and looked away again. 'Dunno. Never really thought about it, to be honest. Have you?'

'Yes,' said Rowena, honestly, 'and it terrifies me.'

'What do you _want _them to say?'

'I've never really thought about it,' she said, lying through her teeth. 'Perhaps something like…An intrepid heroine, as rich in wisdom as in virtue, fearlessly facing every task and hurdle life throws at her, oh, life may kick her in the pansy sometimes but by God, she always manages to pull through.'

Salazar raised an amused eyebrow and said, 'Pansy?'

'Shut up. So, er, what would you like them to say about _you?_'

Still grinning smugly, he said, 'The same, I suppose. But without the pansy.'

Rowena mumbled embarrassedly. She wished she'd never mentioned the pansy.

She said, 'I could _tell_ them you have a pansy.'

'Ah yes,' he said, sagely, 'but that, my dear Ravenclaw, would imply you had in fact _seen it_. And there goes your virtue.'

'Dammit.'

'Though a finer way to be rid of your virtue I can't imagine.'

Saving her the pain of blushing (damn blushing!), Helga appeared at her elbow, engulfed in at least three of Anatole's capes. ''Lo,' she said by way of greeting, teeth chattering with the cold.

'Warm enough, Hifflepiffle?' Salazar asked, sceptically surveying her superfluous amount of clothing.

Helga threw him a scathing look and said, 'While your lizard-like covering of amphibiotic scales no doubt keeps your slimy, blue blood pumping around nicely, the rest of us aren't quite so blessed by nature when it comes to keeping warm.'

Salazar adopted a look of mock-confusion and asked, 'What about your thick layer of woolly yellow fur that traps warm air in the winter, thereby warming your body as you hibernate in a ditch?'

'Go and suck the blood of the innocent.'

'Hump a badger.'

'Grow an arse.'

Rowena choked.

Salazar gave her another sideways glance and said, 'Care to join in?'

She shrugged. 'Slither away and eat your young?' she offered.

'Add a bit of liver to your alcohol.'

'Add a bit of face to your nose.'

'Good one,' said Helga.

'Burn another pie!' said Rowena, drunk on power.

'I don't burn pies,' said Helga, 'that's, um, you. Six times now.'

'Oh.' She embraced her friend and said, 'You know I could never insult _you_, Helly.'

'I could,' said Salazar, observing the hug. 'What happens now? Do you take your clothes off, or…?'

They quickly broke apart. 'Disgusting,' mumbled Helga.

Salazar grinned at the praise.

'Did you want something, Helga?' asked Rowena. To Salazar, she said, 'No innuendoes, please.'

While Salazar looked crestfallen, Helga shrugged and said, 'Just a bit bored, really. Er, is anybody guarding Godric?'

'Wouldn't do much good, would it?' Salazar interrupted, 'Unless they were particularly adept at fighting off six and a half feet of fangs and nostril.' Off the girls' confused glances he added, 'Very large nostrils, that man.'

'The doors have been charmed shut,' said Rowena, 'that's the best we can do. No point going down to join him.'

'Wasn't going to,' Helga mumbled guiltily.

'Course not. And even if he _does _escape – which is a _million-to-one _chance – everyone here has a wand and knows how to use it.'

'Oh. Alright, Ro. I'll, er…' She threw the silhouetted form of Salazar a quick, discreet glance and mumbled, 'I'll see you, then.' She shuffled away.

A short while later, Salazar said, 'Million-to-one chance, yeah?'

'Yes,' said Rowena, definitely.

'So you charmed the doors shut after him, did you?'

She threw him a withering look and said, '_No_. You did.'

He raised his eyebrows.

'You _did._'

He shook his head.

'Didn't you?'

---

Godric – that is, the majority of Godric, presently covered in hair and slavering – stared at the heavy, bolted wooden door. Between howls and barks he whined and whimpered, because the _minority _of Godric – the human part, deep inside his head – wouldn't let him break the thing down and tear out a jugular.

Majority Godric hurled himself sideways into the wall and scored scratches down the brickwork, before running madly across the room and doing the same elsewhere. At the back of his mind, Minority Godric sang:

'_And I did walk through moor and glen,_

_I searched the lifelong day!_

_I found my love by wolf's dark den,_

_Bright and merry and gay!_

_In roses she did swathe herself,_

_In bluebells she did lay!_

'_Til the Black Badger killed her self,_

_She skipped along the way!_'

And as Minority Godric progressed to the next verse, the mind and heart and soul he tried so desperately to distract with the happy little ditty began to wander. He thought of Helga, swathed in roses. Rowena was in the wolf's dark den.

'_Til Salazar Slytherin killed her self—_

Minority Godric was angry.

---

'Oh gods,' Rowena squeaked, 'oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Oh gods. Oh, _gods—_'

'But at least you're not panicking,' said Salazar, dryly.

'Oh, gods!'

'What are _they_ going to do about it?'

Rowena waved her arms around frantically to compensate for a lack of words.

'The locomotion?' said Salazar.

'_Thunderbolt!_' she cried, to the confusion of those unfortunate enough to be within earshot. 'Big, shiny thunderbolt; make him go bang! And,' she added, calming down slightly, 'that was nothing like the locomotion, that's more like—'

'For the love of sanity, Ravenclaw, stop your dancing!'

Rowena obediently lowered her hands and, after a pause, muttered, 'Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods…'

'Ah. Back to those, are we?'

'What are we going to _do?_'

'Well dancing sure as hell doesn't figure into the curriculum!'

'Stop being sarcastic!'

'Stop dancing!'

'_I can't help it!_'

Salazar held her firmly by the shoulders. Rowena shimmied to an eventual halt and fell under Salazar's scrutiny. As far as she could tell, he was checking for the early signs of insanity.

'Right then, Tweedle-Dee,' he said, once she'd finally calmed down, 'the important thing is that we've got the panicking out of the way. Well taken care of, by the way.'

'Ah…don't mention it.'

'Right about now, we could probably do with an ample serving of self-delusion and denial, sprinkled liberally with rhetorical questions and a complete absence of logic.'

Rowena rose to the occasion: 'He probably won't escape. I mean, he's been in this situation before, hasn't he? Many times he's been locked away in the dungeons without any charms or curses preventing him from doing a runner, and he's never escaped before, has he?'

Salazar nodded. 'Very good. Now add a tablespoon of doubt.'

'Then again,' she said, bleakly, 'what if he has? I mean, we _think _he's escaped before. And killed, too. That's why we're here, isn't it?'

Salazar contemplated this point. 'Another pinch of doubt, I think.'

Rowena acquiesced magnificently: 'And he's in a bad, bad mood…'

He nodded again. 'Finally, top it off with a healthy dollop of cold, hard logic – this isn't really your forte, Ravenclaw – and reach a healthy conclusion.'

'I object to that accusation,' mumbled Rowena, but weakly.

He let go of Rowena's shoulders – she hadn't noticed he was still holding them – and said, 'Now. It's dark, cold, snowy and full-moon – ideal wolf weather.'

'Ah,' she mumbled.

'And in the dungeons, completely unguarded, is a pissed-off werewolf with a grudge.'

'Ah.'

'Werewolves love to feel the great outdoors, which is where we, unfortunately, find ourselves. On the plus side, they generally prefer not to attack large groups, such as the one we're currently a part of, for fear of being outnumbered.'

'Ah?'

'Unfortunately, many will risk it.'

'Ah.'

'We now find ourselves faced with two options,' he said, thoughtfully, 'the first – and you probably won't like this – involves not doing anything, and hoping for the best.'

Rowena winced.

'That's what I thought you'd say. The second – and I'm fairly certain _I_ won't like this – involves going down to the dungeons and putting a charm on the door to ensure he can't escape.'

'Better,' said Rowena, enthusiastically, 'a lot better! We can stop him before he has chance to escape, cut him off at the _don't shake your head like that or I'll club you_ start and be back here within ten minutes!'

'I have two problems with that, Ravenclaw.'

'Keep them to yourself,' she snapped, setting determinedly across the grass and snow. After approximately twelve seconds, she came to her senses and realised a) what the hell she was doing, and b) that no one was making any attempt to follow her. Lest we forget, we must always have humility. She came to an eventual halt. Her wand caught up, and bobbed obediently over her head like an antenna.

She turned around. The assembled teachers and staff were still milling around aimlessly, attempting small talk, and Anatole was beginning to brush stripes of clay across his face. A few people stared at her. Of Slytherin, there was no sign.

After a thoughtful few moments Rowena mumbled, 'Cocknobs,' and turned back to the castle.

'Quite,' said Salazar.

Rowena very nearly had a cardiac arrest, but somehow managed to avoid the fatality. 'Christ in a _dinghy_, Salazar! For the love of…!'

'Chill your knickers,' said Salazar, with a self-satisfied grin, 'We don't need that kind of talk.'

'But how did—?'

'As I was saying: my first problem concerns—'

'But how did you get in front of me?!'

'—the strength of your average werewolf's nasal passages. Now, it's perfectly acceptable to say that—'

'You were definitely behind me!'

'—a werewolf, during the full moon, will be more than able to recognise the scent of someone approaching them from the other side of a big, wooden door. This kind of thing—'

'And I only turned around for a few seconds!'

'—could make a wolf edgy. Potentially homicidal. Definitely angry enough to tear down a door without prompting, and I've been told I have a rather attractive jugular. So—'

'_How did you get in front of me?!_'

Salazar shrugged. 'I walked, of course. Secondly,' he continued, as Rowena gaped at him, 'we are here, _en masse_, to protect little Anatiddle and his soggy cohorts from whatever it is that's big and spiky and likes to kill people. Surely the reason we're _here _is on the eventuality that Godric _does_escape? Correct me if I'm wrong, but locking Godders in his kennel does render our services rather redundant.'

Rowena returned to her senses once more. Her senses were like old friends; they should meet up more often. 'We're here to protect Anatidd – Ana_tole _– from whatever it is that's attacking. We don't know that it _is _Godric, but I think locking him up would be a precaution well worth taking! Don't _you?_'

Salazar, for the moment, didn't speak. But Rowena watched his eyes very intently, and noticed the way they flashed briefly towards the forest.

'Alright,' he said, eventually, 'we might as well, I suppose.'

'That's the spirit,' said Rowena, cheerily. 'I'll tell Helga.'

'Good luck finding her,' said Salazar. Rowena followed his gaze, and saw that most of the figures now surrounding the fire had their cloaks drawn over their faces. Anatole was reading, with some apparent difficulty, a runic translation. He was hopping.

'What in hell is that?' Salazar asked, distractedly.

'Er,' said Rowena, uncertainly, 'some kind of…ceremonial hopping dance, by the looks of it. Er…possibly to invoke the spirits of the soil.'

'Right. And that's the ceremonial falling over, is it?'

'Er…'

'And now, the highly mystical trying-to-get-up-but-falling-over-your-own-cloak dance.'

'Ancient tradition,' Rowena mumbled.

'Followed, of course, by the magical chant of "ah, shit, I'm always doing that"?'

'Ah,' said Rowena, sympathetically, 'he's a _bit _clumsy, yes, but he's very—'

'A _bit _clumsy? Ravenclaw, I've known house-elves with more grace.'

'You _had sex_ with—'

'Leave it!'

---

Malfoys had style. It came with the income.

Style, power, sex appeal and cold-heartedness were family traditions, passed down between generations like a valuable heirloom.

Oh, and snobbery.

Style, snobbery, power, sex appeal and cold-heartedness – oh, and a disregard for the unwritten laws of morality, of course—

Style, snobbery, a disregard for the unwritten laws of morality, power, sex appeal and cold-heartedness…and a fine eye for clothes, and gorgeous hair, and cheekbones so sharp you could slice lemons with them—

Basically, Xavier Malfoy was just flowing with positive attributes.

But, he thought, as he lounged across the sofa with all the selfishness of a spoilt cat, there was _one _thing about him that set him apart from all the Malfoys that had preceded him. And it wasn't _just _the steely grey eyes you could drown in, or the particularly attractive tussle of his silvery-blonde locks. Oh no. He was a man with _depths._

The thing that really set him apart was a little trait he liked to call _tactics._ Let us imagine that, for some largely unknown reason that is most probably connected to blackmail, Xavier Malfoy was placed in control of an army division. He must chose their method of attack and lead them into battle: what does he do?

Like the many Malfoys before him, he would view the maps. He would seek experienced opinions, search for weaknesses and shout at people, just for the hell of it. But here he differed:

Malfoys of the past would find the country's biggest vulnerability. An unprotected fort? An undefended river? Yes. Their troops would attack at dawn, slaughtering all they came across, and if they didn't win the war they'd at least die in a blaze of glory. And limbs. And pointy objects.

Xavier Malfoy, on the other hand, would chose a town he didn't like the look of and kill the cows; uproot the vegetables; poison the water supply; behead the postal worker; block the roads and retreat. If the town was part of the country they were at war with, all the better.

He wasn't insane; he simply knew vulnerability when he saw it. And he wasn't afraid of personal, either. He'd much rather see the pain close-up.

His father was beginning to wonder if he'd gone too far.

The other person in the room, sprawling across another sofa in an equally cat-like way, also recognised a difference between Xavier and his ancestors. She called it "arsey-ness". If she was in a good mood, she added "vain, arrogant, self-righteous and unnecessary", but "arsey-ness" was good enough for the time being.

'That's interesting,' said Xavier, sipping a glass of something.

'_Very _interesting, I thought,' said Sophia Bruntt. 'I feel quite bad about scratching his face.'

'Why?'

'He's got enough to contend with, as it is. I'm not sure we even _need_ a spy anymore.'

'Hm,' said Xavier, ignoring the latter part of her statement. 'And how did _she_ react to this?'

'She didn't,' said Sophia, with a shrug, 'not the scratching. Though she got quite upset when I told her about the marriage.'

'How upset, do you think?'

'A low level of despair, I'd say. And very angry, too.'

'Why?'

'No idea. Not as angry as _I _was, I can tell you. If I don't get pregnant soon I'm going to flog somebody.' She spared Xavier a discreet, calculating look up and down, but decided she wasn't quite so desperate just yet.

'Dear me,' said Xavier, completely unaware of Sophia's temporary insanity, 'we've either driven them together or wrenched them apart completely.'

'Win-win,' said Sophia, thoughtfully.

'Exactly. They're doomed either way.'

"Doomed", thought Sophia, was certainly the kind of word Xavier would use. Nice and melodramatic; all that was missing was an eye patch, a henchman and a fluffy white cat.

'Star-crossed lovers,' she said, as thoughtful as before, 'I quite like the sound of that. Nice and…_romantic. _I don't think he'd mind quite so much if he knew it would be so _romantic._'

Xavier threw her a look of mild reproach. '_Romance_, dear Sophia, has nothing to do with it. We're trying to wipe out an entire race, here.'

'As well as destroying the heart and mind of our treacherous former ally,' said Sophia, in the tones of someone who's heard it recited many times before, 'yes, I know. But I'd rather fancy a spot of star-crossed romance myself.'

'Well, if you didn't keep killing your husbands, dear...'

'Oh, but they get _so _annoying…'

---

And in a field, far, far away…

…(but not so far that they couldn't be observed by anyone resourceful enough to watch)…

'I wasn't scared,' Rowena insisted, quite convincingly.

'Of course,' said Salazar, walking just ahead of her, 'you often scream and curse for no reason.'

'You were _behind _me! And then you appeared _in front _of me! How did—?'

'I'm a vampire,' he said, swishing his cloak for dramatic emphasis, 'obviously.'

'I don't think so. I've seen the way you get through garlic.'

Salazar shrugged. 'It _does_ give savoury meals that extra kick.'

'It stinks.'

'Well, now I'm definitely going to have to kill you.'

The castle was in clear view. Of course, it was difficult for a castle of this size to _not _be in clear view, but now they could make out the detail on each gargoyle, and the edges of each brick. They both subconsciously slowed their pace.

'What is it that kills vampires?' asked Rowena. 'Big sticks of wood through the heart, yes? And chopping their heads off.'

'To be fair, that'd kill pretty much anything.'

'And daylight,' she continued, ignoring him. 'And I've definitely seen you out in the daylight, so don't try any of that vampiric nonsense with me. Doesn't silver kill them?'

Salazar shrugged. 'Presumably, if you chop their heads off with it.'

'I've always wondered why garlic does it,' Rowena mumbled, vaguely aware that she was only doing so to stop herself screaming and running away from the castle ahead, 'I mean, why? It's damn expensive, garlic. If we ever come under attack by hordes of vampires, we'll have to throw onions at them and hope they can't tell the difference. What _does _silver kill?'

'Werewolves,' said Salazar, shortly. 'Which brings us back to the matter in hand.'

'Or…_paw_,' said Rowena, in a feeble attempt at punning.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Leave the jokes to me, Ravenclaw. I'm the wise-cracking anti-hero of this escapade.'

'What am I?'

'The gutsy bit of skirt.'

'Oh.'

'Do you have any silver we can club him with?' They'd reached the entrance.

'Salazar, I am _not _bludgeoning him to death!'

'Fine! We'll bludgeon him until he's quite ill!'

'No bludgeoning!'

Salazar heaved a sigh, and growled. 'Intrepid heroine, eh? Life's going to kick you in the damn pansy if you don't watch out.'

'You leave my pansy out of this!'

'Most people would be terrified of confronting the possibility of being ripped, limb from bloody limb, by a merciless, human-sized dog with big nostrils. Not _you_, Ravenclaw,' he said, his voice burning with reproach, 'you're quite happy to grab the metaphorical bull by the horns. Although I don't know if having your face ripped off would suit your skin tone at this time of year.'

Rowena paused. They were in the entrance hall. Far ahead of them – but never far enough – stretched the corridor that lead downstairs, towards the dungeons and the one they once called Godders…

'Alright,' she said, bottling her principles in favour of her limbs, 'alright, we'll fight him if we have to. But only with wands – no silver, no fire. Got that?'

Salazar looked down at the wand in his hand. 'Can't do much stabbing with a wand, Ravenclaw.'

'And we're only fighting _him_ to stop him fighting _us_. And – and if you stop him _permanently_, I'll shove your beloved garlic where the sun doesn't shine.'

Salazar sighed, but smiled very slightly. 'Gutsy bit of skirt,' he mumbled, 'you'll be the death of me.'

_And his war shall kill—_

'What?' Rowena demanded, fiercely. Through some unspoken arrangement, they'd not moved from the castle entrance.

'Gutsy bit of skirt,' Salazar repeated, slightly louder for her benefit, 'you'll be the death of—'

_And he shall love—_

'_What?!_' She screamed it this time. Salazar grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and clamped a hand over her mouth, hissing for her to shush.

_And his love shall kill!_

—A mysterious woman, all in black—

Memories, tiny and fragmented, hit her brain like a downfall of hail. Images flashed by so quickly she could hardly recognise them, never mind make sense of them – a woman, and a dungeon, and _the air was full of angry hisses_ _and she began to scream—_

Then Salazar kissed her.

---

Helga was tired. She was tired of many things, and Godric was one of them.

She hated him. She really, really hated him. Lying to her throughout their relationship, that was one thing. But when she approached him, scared and tentative, to tell him she was pregnant, the last thing she'd expected was for him to _shout _at her

Two days later she'd seen him again – still scared, and even more tentative – and mumbled that, actually, she was wrong, and as it turned out, she was _not _pregnant. And he'd stared at her for a while, his mouth opening and shutting, and said—

'Well, that's quite alright, then. I'm not teaching today, if you'd like to go for a walk.'

And_ then _she'd hated him.

And yet the thing that she hated most of all – more than his stupid grin and constant perfectionism – was…well, hating him. She hated it!

And that was why, fifteen minutes before Anatole's spell began, she'd risked a final glance at Rowena and Slytherin, pulled the hood of her cloak over her face and walked, through the dark, back to the castle.

She knew what she was looking for. A _gesture_. Not a declaration, or an apology or a display of her affection, but a kindly gesture to a friend in need that said: I'm here, Godric, even if _you're _not.

She found it easily, and set off towards the dungeons when a familiar voice met her ears: '…good idea at the time.' It was Salazar.

The statement was followed by a silence. If she was more familiar with its context, she would have described it as a _stunned _silence. It was the silence of someone who has had all the words shocked out of her head, and can't decide whether to slap, shout, feel embarrassed or melt in a puddle.

'Oh,' said the silence, weakly. It was certainly Rowena.

More silence, of the awkward variety. Slytherin said, 'Well, it stopped you shouting, didn't it?'

'Er, yes,' said Rowena, very quickly, 'yes, I – I suppose it did.' She cleared her throat. Slytherin did the same. 'Er.'

'Sorry.'

'Er. Don't…mention it. Excuse me.' Helga didn't know it, but the figure positively identified as Rowena Ravenclaw turned away from Salazar, rolled her eyes several times and mimed a long scream until she felt able to proceed.

'Better?' said Slytherin.

'Er,' said Rowena again. Words were returning, slowly. 'Yes. Fine. Excellent. Everything's good.' Rowena seemed to decide that some things, trivial as they now seemed in the shadow of That Moment, were vital to address. 'Er…you – you know the party? The – er – shin-dig?'

Apparently glad to see the conversation progressing, Salazar said, 'The shin-dig – yeah. What about it?'

'Well…did something happen?'

Slytherin paused. 'What do you mean?'

'Did I hit my head when I fell?'

Salazar half-laughed, as if to dispel his confusion. The laugh sounded strangely wooden. 'What do you mean?'

'Well – do you remember the party?'

'Yeah?'

'Well, I _don't_. Er. All I remember is talking to you one minute, talking to Anatole the next and then waking up on my floor.'

'You must have been drinking.'

'But I wasn't!'

'Well, you were ill.'

'I've never been _that_ ill. What did I do? What happened to me?'

The silence returned. Helga glanced desperately at the full moon in the window, and hoped they'd move out of her way.

---

Salazar stared into her eyes. She stared _at _his, around his and slightly to the left of his, but was unable to meet his gaze fully. The Slytherin stare was quite disconcerting.

He knew what she was thinking. It ran along the lines of "arse, arse and buggery". If her initial reaction was anything to go by, she wouldn't be able to think straight for quite some time. Kissing does that to people.

And _why on earth _had he done it?...Of course he knew why. He could feign confusion inside his own head if he bloody well liked, but he knew_ why _he'd done it. It was because he wanted to.

He'd wanted to shut her up, too, and was quite successful in doing so. He could have silenced her any number of ways, and many of them didn't even require physical contact – but, my, the girl was attractive when she was hysterical.

And when he kissed her, of course, he was digging his own grave. Lots of other graves, too. _Every single hour_ he spent at this damn castle was another thrust of the shovel, but he couldn't leave. It could still be fixed. The graves could be re-filled. _He didn't want to go._

Of course…it wasn't much of a kiss, really. More of a peck.

Hm.

What else would she be thinking, underneath all the mental blasphemy? She'd be thinking…she'd be thinking exactly what she was saying. _What happened to me? Why can't I remember?_ And on that issue he was remaining silent.

_Don't even have to admit it inside my own head, if I don't want to…_

He removed his gaze, having successfully silenced her once more. He wasn't going to answer. He wasn't even going to lie. He was just going to stand there, staring down the corridor, praying for a miracle he could distract her with…

A miracle came.

'Ravenclaw,' he said quietly, speaking from the corner of his mouth, 'if you were Godric Gryffindor right now, who is the last person in the world you think you'd want to see?'

Rowena blinked. Clearly she hadn't expected such a rapid change of discussion, and Salazar couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for the injured look on her face.

'I don't know,' she said, 'Helga, maybe?'

'Yes,' said Salazar, 'then I'd better go and jump on her, hadn't I?'

As far as exiting lines went, it was certainly memorable.

---

Helga found the world travelling towards her very fast. She was so shocked by the sight of it that she barely noticed the pressure on her back as Salazar Slytherin, a vision in a black cape, dove into her back, pushed her to the ground and quickly turned her body in mid-air so that she landed, none too delicately, on her back. Thick curls of hair and three woollen cloaks softened her fall, but the presence of Salazar Slytherin sprawled across her abdomen very nearly winded her.

Salazar quickly crawled to his feet, while Helga stared at the ceiling in a state of shock. Words like "what the hell", "you psychotic git" and "what did you do that for" filled her head, but she found no breath to deliver them. After a while, she settled on: 'Ow!'

'Sorry about that,' said Salazar, without much conviction.

Helga managed another 'Ow!'

'Oh, you'll live.'

'Bloody…ow!'

Somewhere above her head, Rowena loomed into view. 'Helly?' she said.

'Ow!' said Helga.

Salazar said, 'Riveting conversationalist, aren't you, Hufflepuff?'

Rowena helped Helga to her feet. They were at dungeon level, and quite possibly the worst floor to be pushed into. Slime clung to her hair with a steely determination one had to admire.

'_Ow_,' said Helga, weakly. 'He bloody pushed me!'

Salazar shrugged.

'He _pushed _me!'

'Er, yes, he did,' Rowena agreed, 'a rather violent and, some would say, _unnecessary _act, but…commendable all the same, I'm sure.'

'Commendable?' Helga repeated, drowning in disbelief. 'He pushed me to the floor! I was only—'

'—waltzing into the jaws of death to tickle its fluffy chin?' Salazar finished.

Helga fell silent. After a while, more than a shade guiltily, she said, 'No.'

'Really?' said Salazar. He bent down and picked up the items she'd been carrying. He surveyed them sceptically. 'What are these meant to be?'

'A gesture,' she said, feebly.

'Looks like a packet of doggy biscuits and a soft toy to me.'

'Oh dear,' said Rowena, sympathetically. 'Er, I don't think he'd really…appreciate the sentiment in his current state, Helly.'

Helga looked crestfallen. 'Really?'

'Mm. Sorry.'

'Good grief,' Salazar muttered, 'what do you think he turns into once a month – a labradoodle?'

---

Godric could hear them talking. He could _smell _them talking. He could smell what day it was.

He could even hear their hearts beating, and the blood pumping around their bodies. He could almost taste the flesh, and feel the release that tearing through a ribcage would bring—

_And I did walk through moor and glen,_

_I searched the lifelong day…_

Sing. Sing. Don't think, just sing. And let them, _make _them, please, _please go away_…

---

Something thudded against a wooden door. Rowena's eyes shot open.

'_Shit_.'

Helga looked up at her. 'What is it, Ro?'

'Did you not hear that?'

'Hear what?'

_Thud._

'I heard it,' said Salazar quickly, raising his wand. 'Where did it come from?'

In the dim light of their wands, the darkness of the dungeons seemed eternal. There came another _thud. _

'Oh gods,' said Helga. She had her wand upside down. 'Where is he?'

'You don't _know?_'

'No! I just thought – I thought—'

'Around the corner,' said Rowena, quietly, 'his room's around the corner.'

'Are you sure?'

There was another thud, and a howl.

'No,' she said, weakly, 'call it an educated guess.'

'We need to—'

'Oh, gods!' Helga cried, taking a step forwards, 'He's in pain!'

'He can probably smell you,' Salazar hissed, 'now get lost! We'll have to pray he doesn't – get _lost_, Hufflepuff!'

Helga took an obedient, terrified couple of steps back. It was all she could manage before her legs decided they'd rather be elsewhere, and she fell to her knees.

'Bloody hell,' said Salazar, as another _thud _sounded. 'Come on, Ravenclaw.'

They stepped forwards, into the enveloping darkness. More thuds. 'What's he doing?' Rowena whispered, hoarsely.

'Throwing himself at the door,' Salazar whispered back, 'that's all. Just…just a bit further. Then we lock it and we run. Got it?'

Rowena was too terrified to even nod, so she let the silence speak on her behalf. Any second now, there'd be the splintering of wood – a yellow-eyed beast would tear down the corridor, bounding off the walls, snapping its jaws –

'Bit further,' Salazar hissed, 'just a _bit—_'

They stopped. The thuds had ceased. Out of the black silence came the _click _of a lock, and the slow, careful creak of a door, and Rowena was sure that her stomach had absconded with her backbone.

The figure emerged from the shadows.

Salazar breathed the words, '_Christ. In a dinghy._'

It wasn't quite what Rowena was thinking, but near enough.

---

'Of course,' said Xavier, pensively, 'we'll need a Plan.'

Sophia released a very quiet groan and allowed herself another glass of wine.

He elevated his left eyebrow. 'Are you scoffing my Plan, Soph?'

'Oh, Xavier. You _know _how ugly I look when I scoff.'

'Don't sneer, then.'

'But I do look _terribly_ attractive when I sneer.' She lowered the glass and admired her watery reflection within, before continuing, 'It simply occurs to me, darling boy, that you've devised no less than seven plans since I've known you, and not one of them has yet paid off.'

'That's debatable,' said Xavier archly.

'Oh, people _died_, sure enough, but what of satisfaction? What of achievement? What of my purse-strings, Xavier? Because your little plans have cost me a hefty sum, and I can't claim that they've given me much enjoyment.'

'You got two husbands out of them!'

'Yes, but they were no _fun_.'

'And I introduced you to Philip,' he added, feeling rather annoyed.

Sophia winced. 'Which one was he?'

'The third one.'

'Oh, yes,' she said darkly. 'He twitched a lot.'

_Not until he married you_, Xavier thought. _Funny, that._ 'My Plan, Sophia.'

'What about it, dear?'

'I won't require any donations, but I'll need your full compliance. And our little spy, too.'

'Fine, fine,' said Sophia, waving her hand dismissively. It seemed he was being arsey again. 'And what's this plan of yours called?'

'I shall call it: "The Destruction of…" what's it called? Hogglewoggle?'

'_Hogwarts_, darling.'

'"The Destruction of Hogwarts". Yes – _Part Deux._'

'The way things are going, dear,' said Sophia, through a yawn, 'I don't think we'll need to do much.'

---

Godric was naked. He was dazed, bruised, bloodied and beaten, and his faraway eyes were smiling.

He stared past them both and declared, in a voice so bright and cheerful it clashed against the atmosphere like a lightening bolt: 'I stopped him!'

And then he fainted.

The world fell into silence once more; the dim green glow of their wands highlighted Godric's every muscle. Time passed, and they dared breathe out again.

Rowena said, 'Well…I've never seen anybody _that _naked.'

And Salazar said, 'I've never really wanted to.'

---

That was The End. Rowena thought it was definitely the end. Of…something.

He'd kissed her. Again. He'd bloody kissed her again. And she was so shocked that she couldn't even enjoy the experience.

She'd told him, very quietly, that he shouldn't go around kissing people just to shut them up. "It seemed like a good idea at the time", she told him, was not a valid excuse. She didn't say _why_. She hoped he'd guess. But if he did, he made no attempt to tell her as much.

_A mystery_, her brain said, _bathing in riddle and towelling himself down with an enigma_. She really hated her brain, sometimes.

Okay, so, what have we got…?

A school, a job, a reasonable income, the fulfilment of a lifetime ambition, all her arms and legs, a best friend last seen weeping into a pile of dog biscuits, a handful of missing memories, a co-founder who can't decide whether he's a werewolf or not, a slight headache, a girl we're going to have to label "love rival number one" and a pale, mysterious chap who doesn't know how to time his kisses, pretends he's a vampire and makes your heart flip so often you're desperate to punch him into the next life to stop it happening again…

And you don't know if he likes you, but you _do _know you care.

And he's just beaten you at Sausage of War, which is a silly game you probably should have kept within the confines of your own head.

And the show _must_ go on, because you've no idea howyou're going to end it…

---

It wasn't The End.

Salazar knew that as soon as Godric's unconscious body hit the floor, because he imagined The End would involve his arms and legs being ripped off.

He thought, for a moment or two, that it might be the end of _something. _Anything. It wasn't.

He'd walked into Heather, earlier. She'd beamed her gorgeous beam, kissed his cheek and strolled away with a wave, and he'd thought: _There's _the girl for me! Just imagine – she's pureblood, she's beautiful, she's good company, she's entertaining, she'll always be faithful – we could run away and stay away, and _none of it would have to happen_…

He could be happy. Quite happy.

But he didn't want it.

He'd seen Anatiddle Amery soon after, walking into a door. Clumsy git. And the thought had crossed his mind that _he_ could make Ravenclaw very happy, and their future would be long and cheery and bright and all that crap, with bluebirds bursting into spontaneous song and happy elves revealing a dazzling grasp of choreography.

But – because humans are very selfish animals and, in that respect, Salazar was leader of the field – he didn't want that, either.

He wasn't reformed and he wasn't enlightened, and he'd always been led to understand that such things usually occur at The End of things. So he knew, even before he lay in bed that night, patiently awaiting the arrival of Sleep, that the finish line was far, far ahead. The dream had only confirmed it.

He'd had this dream before, but never quite so clear. It had never spoken before, either. The snakes, screams, crimsons, forests, daggers and werewolves were the same – after all these years, they were almost comforting. And then there came the voice. _Cray's _voice.

It cut through the dream like a knife, thrusting through his ears and into his brain with such clarity that all other noises became unreal in contrast. It flooded the world, and he was drowning…

'**With the weapon of his maker; of eye and tooth;**

**There comes he who brings to end what father shall fail;**

**And he will speak; and his speech will kill!**

**And he will war; and his war will kill!**

**And he will love; and his love will kill!**

**And all will perish whose blood is of half, and of mud.**

**And this path he will choose, with the blood spilt of his father**_…_

…_I've not finished with you, yet_.'

He woke up hissing.


End file.
